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BY  THE  SAME  ATJTHOE, 


POEMS    OF    THE    OEIENT. 

1  volume.    Price,  75  cents. 


POEMS  OF  HOME  AND  TEAVEL. 

1  volume.     Price,  75  cents. 


TICKNOR  AND  FIELDS,  Publishers. 


THE 


POET'S   JOURNAL. 


BY 


BAYARD    TAYLOR. 


BOSTON: 
TICKNOR    AND    FIELDS. 

1863. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1862,  by 

BAYARD    TAYLOR, 
in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  for  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


.-^SECOND,     EDIT.ION. 


UNIVERSITY    PRESS: 

WBLCH,    BIGBLOW,    AND   COMPANY, 

CAMBRIDGE. 


PREFACE. 


THE  RETURN  OF  THE  GODDESS. 

NOT  as  in  youth,  with  steps  outspeeding  morn, 

And  cheeks  all  bright,  from  rapture  of  the  way, 
But  in  strange  mood,  half  cheerful,  half  forlorn, 
She  comes  to  me  to-day. 

Does  she  forget  the  trysts  we  used  to  keep, 

When  dead  leaves  rustled  on  autumnal  ground, 
Or  the  lone  garret,  whence  she  banished  sleep 
With  threats  of  silver  sound  ? 

Does  she  forget  how  shone  the  happy  eyes 

When  they  beheld  her,  —  how  the  eager  tongue 
Plied  its  swift  oar  through  wave-like  harmonies, 
To  reach  her  where  she  sung  ? 

250575 


IV 


How  at  her  sacred  feet  I  cast  me  down  ? 

How  she  upraised  me  to  her  bosom  fair, 
And  from  her  garland  shred  the  first  light  crown 
That  ever  pressed  my  hair  ? 

Though  dust  is  on  the  leaves,  her  breath  will  bring 
Their  freshness  back  :  why  lingers  she  so  long  ? 
The  pulseless  air  is  waiting  for  her  wing, 
Dumb  with  unuttered  song. 

If  tender  doubt  delay  her  on  the  road, 

0  let  her  haste  to  find  the  doubt  belied ! 
If  shame  for  love  unworthily  bestowed, 

That  shame  shall  melt  in  pride. 

If  she  but  smile,  the  crystal  calm  shall  break 

In  music,  sweeter  than  it  ever  gave, 
As  when  a  breeze  breathes  o'er  some  sleeping  lake, 
And  laughs  in  every  wave. 

The  ripples  of  awakened  song  shall  die 

Kissing  her  feet,  and  woo  her  not  in  vain, 
Until,  as  once,  upon  her  breast  I  lie  — 
Pardoned,  and  loved  again  ! 

B.  T. 


CONTENTS. 


INSCRIPTION 


PAGE 

7 


THE   POET'S   JOURNAL. 

FIRST  EVENING 

DARKNESS 

THE  TORSO 20 

THE  DEAD  MARCH 23 

ON  THE  HEADLAND    .        . 25 

MARAH 27 

THE  VOICE  OF  THE  TEMPTER 30 

FATE  DEFIED  . 

EXORCISM 34 

SQUANDERED  LIVES 36 

INDIFFERENCE 38 

A  SYMBOL 40 

SECOND  EVENING 47 

ATONEMENT      .        .        . 

DECEMBER 53 

SYLVAN  SPIRITS 55 

THE  LOST  MAY 57 

CHURCH- YARD  ROSES 60 

AUTUMNAL  DREAMS 62 

IN  WINTER 65 

YOUNG  LOVE 67 

THE  CHAPEL 

IF  LOVE  SHOULD  COME  AGAIN 72 


THIRD  EVENING 77 

THE  RETURN  OF  SPRING    .......  82 

MORNING 84 

QUESTIONS 86 

THE  VISION 88 

LOVE  RETURNED 91 

LOVE  JUSTIFIED 94 

A  WOMAN 96 

THE  COUNT  OF  GLEICHEN 98 

BEFORE  THE  BRIDAL 101 

POSSESSION 103 

UNDER  THE  MOON       ........  105 

THE  MYSTIC  SUMMER 108 

A  WATCH  OF  THE  NIGHT 112 

THE  FATHER 114 

THE  MOTHER 116 

THE  FAMILY 118 

PASSING   THE  SIRENS 127 

VARIOUS    POEMS. 

PORPHYROGENITUS 143 

THE  SONG  OF  THE  CAMP 146 

THE  VINEYARD-SAINT 149 

ICARUS 153 

THE  BATH 158 

THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  TREVI 162 

MY  MISSION 164 

PROPOSAL 167 

RENUNCIATION 168 

THE  QUAKER  WIDOW 174 

ANASTASIA 181 

THE  PALM  AND  THE  PINE 182 

OVER-POSSESSION 186 

ON  LEAVING  CALIFORNIA 188 

EUPHORION 191 

SOLDIER'S  SONG 195 

THE  SHEPHERD'S  LAMENT 197 

THE  GARDEN  OF  ROSES 199 

THE  THREE  SONGS 208 


INSCRIPTION. 


TO    THE   MISTRESS    OF   CEDARCROFT 


THE  evening  shadows  lengthen  on  the  lawn : 
Westward,  our  immemorial  chestnuts  stand, 

A  mount  of  shade  ;  but  o'er  the  cedars  drawn, 
Between  the  hedge-row  trees,  in  many  a  band 

Of  brightening  gold,  the  sunshine  lingers  on, 
And  soon  will  touch  our  oaks  with  parting  hand 

And  down  the  distant  valley  all  is  still, 

And  flushed  with  purple  smiles  the  beckoning  hill. 


ii. 


Come,  leave  the  flowery  terrace,  leave  the  beds 
Where  Southern  children  wake  to  Northern  air : 

Let  yon  mimosas  droop  their  tufted  heads, 
These  myrtle-trees  their  nuptial  beauty  wear, 


•    8 


And  while  the  dying  day  reluctant  treads 

From  tree-top  unto  tree-top,  with  me  share 
The  scene's  idyllic  peace,  the  evening's  close, 
The  balm  of  twilight,  and  the  land's  repose. 


in. 


Come,  for  my  task  is  done :  the  task  that  drew 
My  footsteps  from  the  chambers  of  the  Day,  — 

That  held  me  back,  Beloved,  even  from  you, 
That  are  my  daylight :  for  the  Poet's  way 

Turns  into  many  a  lonely  avenue 

Where  none  may  follow.     He  must  sing  his  lay 

First  to  himself,  then  to  the  One  most  dear ; 

Last,  to  the  world.     Come  to  my  side,  and  hear ! 

IV. 

The  poems  ripened  in  a  heart  at  rest, 

A  life  that  first  through  you  is  free  and  strong, 

Take  them  and  warm  them  in  your  partial  breast, 
Before  they  try  the  common  air  of  song  ! 

Fame  won  at  home  is  of  all  fame  the  best : 
Crown  me  your  poet,  and  the  critic's  wrong 

Shall  harmless  strike  where  you  in  love  have  smiled, 

Wife  of  my  heart,  and  mother  of  my  child  ! 


THE   POET'S  JOURNAL. 

v 


FIRST    EVENING. 

THE  day  had  come,  the  day  of  many  years. 

My  bud  of  hope,  thorned  round  with  guarding  fears, 

And  sealed  with  frosts  of  oft-renewed  delay, 

Burst  into  sudden  bloom  —  it  was  the  day ! 

"  Ernest  will  come ! "  the  early  sunbeams  cried ; 

"  Will  come ! "  was  breathed  through  all  the  woodlands 

wide  ; 
"  Will  come,  will  come ! "  said  cloud,  and  brook,  and 

bird; 

And  when  the  hollow  roll  of  wheels  was  heard 
Across  the  bridge,  it  thundered :  "  He  is  near  !  " 
And  then  my  heart  made  answer :  "  He  is  here ! " 

Ernest  was  here,  and  now  the  day  had  gone 
Like  other  days,  yet  wild  and  swift  and  sweet,  — 
1* 


10 


And  yet  prolonged,  as  if  with  whirling  feet 

One  troop  of  duplicated  Hours  sped  on, 

And  one  trod  out  the  moments  lingeringly : 

So  distant  seemed  the  lonely  dawn  from  me. 

But  all  was  well.     He  paced  the  new-mown  lawn, 

"With  Edith  at  his  side,  and,  while  my  firs 

Stood  bronzed  with  sunset,  happy  glances  cast 

On  the  familiar  landmarks  of  the  Past. 

I  heard  a  gentle  laugh  :  the  laugh  was  hers. 

"  Confess  it,"  she  exclaimed,  "  I  recognize, 

No  less  than  you,  the  features  of  the  place, 

So  often  have  I  seen  it  with  the  eyes 

Your  memory  gave  me :  yea,  your  very  face, 

With  every  movement  of  the  theme,  betrayed 

That  here  the  sunshine  lay,  and  there  the  shade." 

"  A  proof! "  cried  Ernest.     "  Let  me  be  your  guide," 

She  said,  "  and  speak  not :  Philip  shall  decide." 

To  them  I  went,  at  beckon  of  her  hand. 

A  moment  she  the  mellow  landscape  scanned 

In  seeming  doubt,  but  only  to  prolong 

A  witching  aspect  of  uncertainty, 

And  the  soft  smile  in  Ernest's  watching  eye : 

"  Yonder,"  she  said,  "  (T  see  I  am  not  wrong, 

By  Philip's  face,)  you  built  your  hermit  seat 

Against  the  rock,  among  the  scented  fern, 

Where  summer  lizards  played  about  your  feet ; 


11 


And  here,  beside  us,  is  the  tottering  urn 

You  cracked  in  fixing  firmly  on  its  base  ; 

And  here  —  yes,  yes  !  —  this  is  the  very  place  — 

I  know  the  wild  vine  and  the  sassafras  — 

Where  you  and  Philip,  lying  in  the  grass, 

Disowned  the  world,  renounced  the  race  of  men, 

And  you  all  love,  except  your  own  for  him, 

Until,  through  that,  all  love  came  back  again." 

Here  Edith  paused  ;  but  Ernest's  eyes  were  dim. 

He  kissed  her,  gave  a  loving  hand  to  me, 

And  spoke :  "  Ah,  Philip,  Philip,  those  were  days 

We  dare  remember  now,  when  only  blaze 

Far-off,  the  storm's  black  edges  brokenly. 

Who  thinks,  at  night,  that  morn  will  ever  be  ? 

Who  knows,  far  out  upon  the  central  sea, 

That  anywhere  is  land  ?     And  yet,  a  shore 

Has  set  behind  us,  and  will  rise  before  : 

A  past  foretells  a  future."     "  Blessed  be 

That  Past !  "  I  answered,  "  on  whose  bosom  lay 

Peace,  like  a  new-born  child :  and  now,  I  see, 

The  child  is  man,  begetting  day  by  day 

Some  fresher  joy,  some  other  bliss,  to  make 

Your  life  the  fairer  for  his  mother's  sake." 

Deeper  beneath  the  oaks  the  shadows  grew  : 
The  twilight  glimmer  from  their  tops  withdrew, 


12 


And  purple  gloomed  the  distant  hills,  and  sweet 

The  sudden  breath  of  evening  rose,  with  balm 

Of  grassy  meadows  :  in  the  upper  calm 

The  pulses  of  the  stars  began  to  beat : 

The  fire-flies  twinkled  :  through  the  lindens  went 

A  rustle,  as  of  happy  leaves  composed 

To  airy  sleep,  of  drowsy  petals  closed, 

And  the  dark  land  lay  silent  and  content. 

We,  too,  were  silent.     Ernest  walked,  I  knew, 

With  me,  beneath  the  stars  of  other  eves  : 

He  heard,  with  me,  the  tongues  of  perished  leaves  : 

Departed  suns  their  trails  of  splendor  drew 

Across  departed  summers  :  whispers  came 

From  voices,  long  ago  resolved  again 

Into  the  primal  Silence,  and  we  twain, 

Ghosts  of  our  present  selves,  yet  still  the  same, 

As  in  a  spectral  mirror  wandered  there. 

Its  pain  outlived,  the  Past  was  only  fair. 

Ten  years  had  passed  since  I  had  touched  his  hand, 

And  felt  upon  my  lips  the  brother-kiss 

That  shames  not  manhood,  —  years  of  quiet  bliss 

To  me,  fast-rooted  on  paternal  land, 

Mated,  yet  childless.     He  had  journeyed  far 

Beyond  the  borders  of  my  life,  and  whirled 

Unresting  round  the  vortex  of  the  world, 


13 


The  reckless  child  of  some  eccentric  star, 

Careless  of  fate,  yet  with  a  central  strength 

I  knew  would  hold  his  life  in  equipoise, 

And  bend  his  wandering  energies,  at  length, 

To  the  smooth  orbit  of  serener  joys. 

Few  were  the  winds  that  wafted  to  my  nest 

A  leaf  from  him :  I  learned  that  he  was  blest,  — 

The  late  fulfilment  of  my  prophecy,  — 

And  then  I  felt  that  he  must  come  to  me, 

The  old,  unswerving  sympathy  to  claim  ; 

And  set  my  house  in  order  for  a  guest 

Long  ere  the  message  of  his  coming  came. 

In  gentle  terraces  my  garden  fell 

Down  to  the  rolling  lawn.     On  one  side  rose, 

Flanking  the  layers  of  bloom,  a  bolder  swell 

With  laurels  clad,  and  every  shrub  that  grows 

Upon  our  native  hills,  a  bosky  mound, 

Whence  the  commingling  valleys  might  be  seen 

Bluer  and  lovelier  through  the  gaps  of  green. 

The  rustic  arbor  which  the  summit  crowned 

Was  woven  of  shining  smilax,  trumpet-vine, 

Clematis,  and  the  wild  white  eglantine, 

Whose  tropical  luxuriance  overhung 

The  interspaces  of  the  posts,  and  made 

For  each  sweet  picture  frames  of  bloom  and  shade. 


14 


It  was  my  favorite  haunt  when  I  was  young, 
To  read  my  poets,  watch  my  sunset  fade 
Behind  my  father's  hills,  and,  when  the  moon 
Shed  warmer  silver  through  the  nights  of  June, 
Dream,  as  't  were  new,  the  universal  dream. 
This  arbor,  too,  was  Ernest's  hermitage : 
Here  he  had  read  to  me  his  tear-stained  page 
Of  sorrow,  here  renewed  the  pang  supreme 
Which  burned  his  youth  to  ashes :  here  would  try 
To  lay  his  burden  in  the  hands  of  Song, 
And  make  the  Poet  bear  the  Lover's  wrong, 
But  still  his  heart  impatiently  would  cry  : 
"  In  vain,  in  vain  !     You  cannot  teach  to  flow 
In  measured  lines  so  measureless  a  woe. 
First  learn  to  slay  this  wild  beast  of  despair, 
Then  from  his  harmless  jaws  your  honey  tear !  " 

Hither  we  came.     Beloved  hands  had  graced 

The  table  with  a  flask  of  mellow  juice, 

Thereto  the  gentle  herb  that  poets  use 

When  Fancy  droops,  and  in  the  corner  placed 

A  lamp,  that  glimmered  through  its  misty  sphere 

Like  moonlit  marble,  on  a  pedestal 

Of  knotted  roots,  against  the  leafy  wall. 

The  air  was  dry,  the  night  was  calm  and  clear, 

And  in  the  dying  clover  crickets  chirped. 


15 


The  Past,  I  felt,  the  Past  alone  usurped 

Our  thoughts,  —  the  hour  of  confidence  had  come, 

Of  sweet  confession,  tender  interchange, 

Which  drew  our  hearts  together,  yet  with  strange 

Half-dread  repelled  them.     Seeing  Ernest  dumb 

With  memories  of  the  spot,  as  if  to  me 

Belonged  the  right  his  secrets  to  evoke, 

And  Edith's  eyes  on  mine,  consentingly, 

Conscious  of  all  I  wished  to  know,  I  spoke : 

"  Dear  Friend,  one  volume  of  your  life  I  read 

Beneath  these  vines  :  you  placed  it  in  my  hand 

And  made  it  mine,  —  but  how  the  tale  has  sped 

Since  then,  I  know  not,  or  can  understand 

From  this  fair  ending  only.    'Let  me  see 

The  intervening  chapters,  dark  and  bright, 

In  order,  as  you  lived  them.     Give  to-night 

Unto  the  Past,  dear  Ernest,  and  to  me  ! " 

Thus  I,  with  doubt  and  loving  hesitance, 

Lest  I  should  touch  a  nerve  he  fain  would  hide  ; 

But  he,  with  cairn  and  reassuring  glance, 

In  which  no  troubled  shadow  lay,  replied  : 

"  That  mingled  light  and  darkness  are  no  more 

In  this  new  life,  than  are  the  sun  and  shade 

Of  painted  landscapes  :  distant  lies  the  shore 

Where  last  we  parted,  Philip :  how  I  made 

The  journey,  what  adventures  on  the  road, 


16 


What  haps  I  met,  what  struggles,  what  success 

Of  fame,  or  gold,  or  place,  concerns  you  less, 

Dear  friend,  than  how  I  lost  that  sorest  load 

I  started  with,  and  came  to  dwell  at  last 

In  the  House  Beautiful.     There  but  remains 

A  fragment  here  and  there,  —  wild,  broken  strains 

And  scattered  voices  speaking  from  the  Past." 

"  Let  me  those  broken  voices  hear,"  I  said, 

"  And  I  shall  know  the  rest."     "  Well  —  be  it  so. 

You,  who  would  write  *  Hesurgam '  o'er  my  dead, 

The  resurrection  of  my  heart  shall  know." 

Then  Edith  rose,  and  up  the  terraces 

Went  swiftly  to  the  house ;  but  soon  we  spied 

Her  white  dress  gleam,  returning  through  the  trees, 

And,  softly  flushed,  she  came  to  Ernest's  side, 

A  volume  in  her  hand.     But  he  delayed 

Awhile  his  task,  revolving  leaf  by  leaf 

With  tender  interest,  now  that  ancient  grief 

No  more  had  power  to  make  his  heart  afraid ; 

For  pain,  that  only  lives  in  memory, 

Like  battle-scars,  it  is  no  pain  to  show. 

"  Here,  Philip,  are  the  secrets  you  would  know," 

He  said :  "  Howe'er  obscure  the  utterance  be, 

The  lamp  you  lighted  in  the  olden  time 

Will  show  my  heart's-blood  beating  through  the  rhyme 


17 


A  poet's  journal,  writ  in  fire  and  tears 

At  first,  blind  protestations,  blinder  rage, 

(For  you  and  Edith  only,  many  a  page  !) 

Then  slow  deliverance,  with  the  gaps  of  years 

Between,  and  final  struggles  into  life, 

Which  the  heart  shrank  from,  as  't  were  death  instead.' 

Then,  with  a  loving  glance  towards  his  wife, 

Which  she  as  fondly  answered,  thus  he  read :  — 


DARKNESS. 


THE  thread  I  held  has  slipped  from  out  my  hand : 

In  this  dark  labyrinth,  without  a  clew, 
Groping  for  guidance,  stricken  blind,  I  stand, 

A  helpless  child  that  knows  not  what  to  do. 

When  all  the  glory  of  the  morn  was  mine. 
The  sudden  night  surprised  me  unawares  : 

I  see  no  pitying  star  above  me  shine, 
I  hear  no  voice  in  answer  to  my  prayers. 

At  every  step,  I  stumble  on  the  road ; 

Fain  would  I  rest,  the  wild  hours  whirl  me  on ; 
What  business  have  I  in  this  blank  abode, 

Whence  Love,  and  Hope,  and  even  Faith,  are  gone  ? 


19 


A  child  of  summer,  shivering  in  the  cold,  — 
A  son  of  light,  by  darkness  overcome,  — 

A  bird  of  air,  my  broken  wings  I  fold, 

A  harp  of  joy,  my  shattered  strings  are  dumb. 

And  every  gift  that  Life  to  me  had  given 
Lies  at  my  feet,  in  useless  fragments  trod : 

There  is  no  justice  or  in  Earth  or  Heaven  : 
There  is  no  pity  in  the  heart  of  God. 


THE    TORSO. 


IN  clay  the  statue  stood  complete, 

As  beautiful  a  form,  and  fair, 
As  ever  walked  a  Roman  street 

Or  breathed  the  blue  Athenian  air ; 

The  perfect  limbs,  divinely  bare, 
Their  old,  heroic  freedom  kept, 

And  in  the  features,  fine  and  rare, 
A  calm,  immortal  sweetness  slept. 


n. 


O'er  common  men  it  towered,  a  god, 

And  smote  their  meaner  life  with  shame, 

For  while  its  feet  the  highway  trod, 
Its  lifted  brow  was  crowned  with  flame 


21 


And  purified  from  touch  of  blame: 
Yet  wholly  human  was  the  face, 

And  over  them  who  saw  it  came 
The  knowledge  of  their  own  disgrace. 


in. 


It  stood,  regardless  of  the  crowd, 

And  simply  showed  what  men  might  be 
Its  solemn  beauty  disavowed 

The  curse  of  lost  humanity. 

Erect  and  proud,  and  pure  and  free, 
It  overlooked  each  loathsome  law 

Whereunto  others  bend  the  knee, 
And  only  what  was  noble  saw. 


rv. 


The  patience  and  the  hope  of  years 
Their  final  hour  of  triumph  caught ; 

The  clay  was  tempered  with  my  tears, 
The  forces  of  my  spirit  wrought 
With  hands  of  fire  to  shape  my  thought, 

That  when,  complete,  the  statue  stood, 
To  marble  resurrection  brought, 

The  Master  might  pronounce  it  good. 


22 


v. 


But  in  the  night  an  enemy, 

Who  could  not  bear  the  wreath  should  grace 
My  ready  forehead,  stole  the  key 

And  hurled  my  statue  from  its  base  ; 

And  now  its  fragments  strew  the  place 
Where  I  had  dreamed  its  shrine  might  be : 

The  stains  of  common  earth  deface 
Its  beauty  and  its  majesty. 


VI. 

The  torso  prone  before  me  lies ; 

The  cloven  brow  is  knit  with  pain  : 
Mute  lips,  and  blank,  reproachful  eyes 

Unto  my  hands  appeal  in  vain. 

My  hands  shall  never  work  again  : 
My  hope  is  dead,  my  strength  is  spent : 

This  fatal  wreck  shall  now  remain 
The  ruined  sculptor's  monument. 


THE   DEAD  MARCH. 


THE  April  sky  with  sunshine  filled  the  street, 
And  lightly  fell  the  tread  of  pattering  feet, 

As  on  the  last  year's  leaves  the  April  rain. 
The  glaring  houses  wore  a  foreign  grace  ; 
A  foreign  sweetness  shone  on  Labor's  face, 

And  open  lay,  relaxed,  the  hand  of  Gain. 


ii. 

My  sorrow  slept ;  I  breathed  the  peace  of  Spring. 
One  fledgeling  hope  outreached  a  timorous  wing : 

Concealed,  at  least,  and  sacred  was  my  pain, — 
When,  suddenly,  the  dreadful  trumpets  blew, 
And  every  wind  my  gloomy  secret  knew, 

And  all  the  echoes  hurled  it  back  again. 


24 


in. 

Before  a  stranger's  corpse  the  trumpets  cried 
So  bitterly,  it  seemed  all  love  had  died : 

Then  hollow  horns  took  up  the  fatal  strain, 
Till  tongues  of  fire  went  flashing  through  the  air, 
The  myriad  clamors  of  a  sole  despair, 

The  cry  of  grief  that  knows  its  cry  is  vain. 

IV. 

The  dead  was  fortunate,  —  he  could  not  hear  : 
The  mourners  comforted,  behind  his  bier : 

Through  happy  crowds  advanced  the  funeral  train 
Mine  was  the  sorrow,  mine  the  deathlike  pang, 
And  tears,  that  burned  the  eyelids  as  they  sprang, 

To  hear  the  awful  music  of  my  pain. 


ON  THE   HEADLAND. 

I  SIT  on  the  lonely  headland, 

Where  the  sea-gulls  come  and  go : 

The  sky  is  gray  above  me, 
And  the  sea  is  gray  below. 

There  is  no  fisherman's  pinnace 
Homeward  or  outward  bound  ; 

I  see  no  living  creature 

In  the  world's  deserted  round. 

I  pine  for  something  human, 
Man,  woman,  young  or  old,  — 

Something  to  meet  and  welcome, 
Something  to  clasp  and  hold. 

I  have  a  mouth  for  kisses, 

But  there  's  no  one  to  give  and  take ; 
I  have  a  heart  in  my  bosom 

Beating  for  nobody's  sake. 
2 


26 

O  warmth  of  love  that  is  wasted ! 

Is  there  none  to  stretch  a  hand  ? 
No  other  heart  that  hungers 

In  all  the  living  land  ? 


o 


I  could  fondle  the  fisherman's  baby, 

And  rock  it  into  rest ; 
I  could  take  the  sunburnt  sailor, 

Like  a  brother,  to  my  breast. 

I  could  clasp  the  hand  of  any 

Outcast  of  land  or  sea, 
If  the  guilty  palm  but  answered 

The  tenderness  in  me  ! 

. 
The  sea  might  rise  and  drown  me,  — 

Cliffs  fall  and  crush  my  head,  — 
Were  there  one  to  love  me,  living, 

Or  weep  to  see  me  dead  ! 


MARAH. 

THE  waters  of  my  life  were  sweet, 
Before  that  bolt  of  sorrow  fell ; 

But  now,  though  fainting  with  the  heat, 
I  dare  not  drink  the  bitter  well. 

My  God  !  shall  Sin  across  the  heart 
Sweep  like  a  wind  that  leaves  no  trace, 

But  Grief  inflict  a  rankling  smart 
No  after  blessing  can  efface  ? 

I  see  the  tired  mechanic  take 
His  evening  rest  beside  his  door, 

And  gentlier,  for  their  father's  sake, 
His  children  tread  the  happy  floor : 


28 


The  kitchen  teems  with  cheering  smells, 
With  clash  of  cups  and  clink  of  knives, 

And  all  the  household  picture  tells 
Of  humble  yet  contented  lives. 

Then  in  my  heart  the  serpents  hiss : 

What  right  have  these,  who  scarcely  know 

The  perfect  sweetness  of  their  bliss, 
To  flaunt  it  thus  before  my  woe  ? 

Like  bread,  Love's  portion  they  divide, 
Like  water  drink  his  precious  wine, 

When  the  least  crumb  they  cast  aside 
Were  manna  for  these  lips  of  mine. 

I  see  the  friend  of  other  days 

Lead  home  his  flushed  and  silent  bride : 
His  eyes  are  suns  of  tender  praise, 

Her  eyes  are  stars  of  tender  pride. 

Go,  hide  your  shameless  happiness, 
The  demon  cries,  within  my  breast ; 

Think  not  that  I  the  bond  can  bless, 
Which  seeing,  I  am  twice  unblest. 


29 


The  husband  of  a  year  proclaims 
His  recent  honor,  shows  the  boy, 

And  calls  the  babe  a  thousand  names, 
And  dandles  it  in  awkward  joy : 

And  then  —  I  see  the  wife's  pale  cheek, 
Her  eyes  of  pure,  celestial  ray  — 

The  curse  is  choked  :  I  cannot  speak, 
But,  weeping,  turn  my  head  away ! 


THE  VOICE   OF  THE   TEMPTER. 

LAST  night  the  Tempter  came  to  me,  and  said : 
"  Why  sorrow  any  longer  for  the  dead  ? 
The  wrong  is  done  :  thy  tears  and  groans  are  naught 
Forget  the  Past,  —  thy  pain  but  lives  in  thought. 
Night  after  night,  I  hear  thy  cries  implore 
An  answer :  she  will  answer  thee  no  more. 
Give  up  thine  idle  prayer  that  Death  may  come 
And  thou  mayst  somewhere  find  her :  Death  is  dumb 
To  those  that  seek  him.     Live  :  for  youth  is  thine. 
Let  not  thy  rich  blood,  like  neglected  wine, 
Grow  thin  and  stale,  but  rouse  thyself,  at  last, 
And  take  a  man's  revenge  upon  the  Past. 
What  have  thy  virtues  brought  thee  ?     Let  them  go, 
And  with  them  lose  the  burden  of  thy  woe, 
Their  only  payment  for  thy  service  hard : 
They  but  exact,  thou  see'st,  and  not  reward. 


31 


Thy  life  is  cheated,  thou  art  cast  aside 
In  dust,  the  worn-out  vessel  of  their  pride. 
Come,  take  thy  pleasure  :  others  do  the  same, 
And  love  is  theirs,  and  fortune,  name  and  fame ! 
Let  not  the  name  of  Vice  thine  ear  affright : 
Vice  is  no  darkness,  but  a  different  light, 
Which  thou  dost  need,  to  see  thy  path  aright ; 
Or  if  some  pang  in  this  experience  lie, 
Through  counter-pain  thy  present  pain  will  die. 
Bethink  thee  of  the  lost,  the  barren  years, 
Of  harsh  privations,  unavailing  tears, 
The  steady  ache  of  strong  desires  restrained, 
And  what  thou  hast  deserved,  and  what  obtained 
Then  go,  thou  fool !  and,  if  thou  canst,  rejoice 
To  make  such  base  ingratitude  thy  choice, 
While  each  indulgence  which  thy  brethren  taste, 
But  mocks  thy  palate,  as  it  runs  to  waste ! " 

So  spake  the  Tempter,  as  he  held  outspread 
Alluring  pictures  round  my  prostrate  head. 
'Twixt  sleep  and  waking,  in  my  helpless  ear 
His  honeyed  voice  rang  musical  and  clear ; 
And  half  persuaded,  shaken  half  with  fear, 
I  heard  him,  till  the  Morn  began  to  shine, 
And  found  her  brow  less  dewy-wet  than  mine. 


FATE   DEFIED. 

IF  seed  was  meant  to  grow,  or  buds  to  swell 
In  vernal  airs,  or  birds  to  mate  and  build, 
Then  this  quick  love,  wherewith  my  heart  is  filled, 

Was  meant  to  bourgeon  and  to  bloom,  as  well. 

If  sap  was  made,  to  mount  in  every  tree, 
And  blood,  to  fill  the  million  veins  of  man, 
Then  I  was  made,  the  hour  my  life  began, 

To  share  the  universal  destiny. 

If,  as  ordained,  each  creature  finds  his  mate 
And  gives  to  younger  lamps  his  fading  flame 
Of  life,  then  I  a  like  fulfilment  claim, 

Nor  ask  release  from  my  appointed  fate. 

This  heart  is  flesh,  I  cannot  make  it  stone  : 
This  blood  is  hot,  I  cannot  stop  its  flow : 
These  arms  are  vacant  —  wheresoe'er  I  go, 

Love  lies  in  others'  arms,  and  shuns  my  own. 


33 


I  who  have  waited,  served,  performed  my  task 
For  seven  long  years,  and  find  my  Rachel  fled, 
What  recompense  shall  now  be  mine  instead  ? 

Fate  turns  away,  nor  grants  the  least  I  ask ! 

Come,  't  is  enough  !  —  Fate,  Law,  whatever  rules 
This  wretched  Earth,  my  hand  is  on  thy  throat : 
Pour  on  these  wounds  the  sole  sweet  antidote, 

And  keep  thy  tricks  for  cowards  and  for  fools ! 

Too  long  I  Ve  lain,  and  with  submissive  will 
Suffered  :  my  rights  I  now  demand  of  thee : 
Give  me  the  wife,  the  home,  thou  stol'st  from  me. 

The  children  of  the  Future  thou  didst  kill ! 

Mine  thou  hast  chosen  from  a  thousand  lives 
To  bear  thy  malice :  cruel  Power,  take  heed ! 
Pierced  unto  death,  the  conquered  heart  may  bleed, 

The  vengeance  of  an  injured  man  survives. 

Give  back,  thou  thief,  thy  plunder !     Let  me  lie 
In  some  low  nook  of  earth,  obscure,  forgot, 
But  sharing  still  my  brethren's  blessed  lot, 

Or  I  will  wrestle  with  thee  till  I  die ! 


EXORCISM. 

0,  TONGUES  of  the  Past,  be  still ! 

Are  the  days  not  over  and  gone  ? 
The  joys  have  perished  that  were  so  sweet, 

But  the  sorrow  still  lives  on. 

I  have  sealed  the  graves  of  my  hopes  ; 

I  have  carried  the  pall  of  love  : 
Let  the  pains  and  pangs  be  buried  as  deep, 

And  the  grass  be  as  green  above ! 

But  the  ghosts  of  the  dead  arise : 

They  come  when  the  board  is  spread : 
They  poison  the  wine  of  the  banquet  cups 

With  the  mould  their  lips  have  shed. 

The  pulse  of  the  bacchant  blood 

May  throb  in  the  ivy  wreath, 
But  the  berries  are  plucked  from  the  nightshade  bough 

That  grows  in  the  gardens  of  Death. 


35 


I  sleep  with  joy  at  my  heart, 

Warm  as  a  new-made  bride  ; 
But  a  vampyre  comes  to  suck  her  blood, 

And  I  wake  with  a  corpse  at  my  side. 

Shall  I  open  your  fatal  graves  ? 

Shall  I  drive  a  stake  through  the  clay, 
Till  ye  cease  to  drain  from  my  bankrupt  veins 

The  life  ye  have  made  your  prey  ? 

O  ghosts,  I  have  given  to  you 

The  bliss  of  the  faded  years ; 
The  sweat  of  my  brow,  the  blood  of  my  heart, 

And  manhood's  terrible  tears ! 

Take  them,  and  be  content : 

I  have  nothing  more  to  give : 
My  soul  is  chilled  in  the  house  of  Death, 

And  't  is  time  that  I  should  live. 

Take  them,  and  let  me  be : 

Lie  still  in  the  churchyard  mould, 

Nor  chase  from  my  heart  each  new  delight 
With  the  phantom  of  the  old ! 


SQUANDERED  LIVES. 

THE  fisherman  wades  in  the  surges ; 

The  sailor  sails  over  the  sea ; 
The  soldier  steps  bravely  to  battle ; 

The  woodman  lays  axe  to  the  tree. 

They  are  each  of  the  breed  of  the  heroes, 
The  manhood  attempered  in  strife : 

Strong  hands,  that  go  lightly  to  labor, 
True  hearts,  that  take  comfort  in  life. 

In  each  is  the  seed  to  replenish 

The  world  with  the  vigor  it  needs,  — 

The  centre  of  honest  affections, 
The  impulse  to  generous  deeds. 

But  the  shark  drinks  the  blood  of  the  fisher  ; 

The  sailor  is  dropped  in  the  sea ; 
The  soldier  lies  cold  by  his  cannon  ; 

The  woodman  is  crushed  by  his  tree. 


37 


Each  prodigal  life  that  is  wasted 

In  manly  achievement  unseen, 
But  lengthens  the  days  of  the  coward, 

And  strengthens  the  crafty  and  mean. 

The  blood  of  the  noblest  is  lavished 
That  the  selfish  a  profit  may  find  ; 

But  God  sees  the  lives  that  are  squandered, 
And  we  to  His  wisdom  are  blind. 


INDIFFERENCE. 


WE  Fools  !  that  meekly  take  the  bit 
And  drag  the  burden  all  our  lives  ! 
Poor,  blinded  steeds,  we  all  submit, 
Nor  know  our  load,  scarce  seeing  it, 
Although  with  stinging  lash  Fate  goads  us  as  she  drives. 


ii. 


What  does  it  help,  the  gold  we  bear, 

When  we  are  worn,  and  halt,  and  lean  ? 
No  fresher  tastes  the  dusty  air 
When  Fame's  triumphant  trumpets  blare, 
And  we  the  road  would  leave,  to  lie  in  pastures  green. 


39 


in. 

Nor  profits  much  a  virtuous  name, 
So  short  a  time  the  crown  we  wear : 

In  fifty  years  't  will  be  the  same 

As  if  it  were  a  crown  of  shame, 

For  none  will  know  our  lives,  or,  if  they  knew,  would 
care. 


IV. 


Life  came  to  me :  why  should  I  take 

The  tasks  I  did  not  seek  to  do  ? 
I  did  them  for  another's  sake 
In  vain :  and  now  the  yoke  I  break, 
And  let  the  world  roll  on,  regardless  of  its  crew. 


v. 


Here,  take  my  days,  whatever  Fate 

The  worthless  gift  may  choose  to  claim  ; 
For  I  am  weary  of  their  weight : 
Alike  to  me  is  love  or  hate : 
Do  with  me  as  you  please,  all  fortunes  are  the  same. 


A   SYMBOL. 


HEAVY,  and  hot,  and  gray, 
Day  following  unto  day, 
A  felon  gang,  their  blind  life  drag  away,  — 

Blind,  vacant,  dumb,  as  Time, 
Lapsed  from  his  wonted  prime, 
Begot  them  basely  in  incestuous  crime : 

So  little  life  there  seems 
About  the  Tvoods  and  streams,  — 
Only  a  sleep,  perplexed  with  nightmare-dreams. 

The  burden  of  a  sigh 
Stifles  the  weary  sky, 
"Where  smouldering  clouds  in  ashen  masses  lie : 


41 


The  forests  fain  would  groan, 
But,  silenced  into  stone, 
Crouch,  in  the  dull  blue  vapors  round  them  thrown. 

O  light,  more  drear  than  gloom  ! 
Than  death  more  dead  such  bloom  : 
Yet  life  —  yet  life  —  shall  burst  this  gathering  doom ! 


n. 

Behold  !  a  swift  and  silent  fire 

Yon  dull  cloud  pierces,  in  the  west, 

And  blackening,  as  with  growing  ire, 
He  lifts  his  forehead  from  his  breast 

He  mutters  to  the  ashy  host 

That  all  around  him  sleeping  lie,  — 
Sole  chieftain  on  the  airy  coast, 

To  fight  the  battles  of  the  sky. 

He  slowly  lifts  his  weary  strength, 
His  shadow  rises  on  the  day, 

And  distant  forests  feel  at  length 
A  wind  from  landscapes  far  away. 


42 


in. 

How  shall  the  cloud  unload  its  thunder  ? 

How  shall  its  flashes  fire  the  air  ? 
Hills  and  valleys  are  dumb  with  wonder : 

Lakes  look  up  with  a  leaden  stare. 

Hark !  the  lungs  of  the  striding  giant 
Bellow  an  angry  answer  back ! 

Hurling  the  hair  from  his  brows  defiant, 
Crushing  the  laggards  along  his  track, 

Now  his  step,  h'ke  a  battling  Titan's, 
Scales  in  flame  the  hills  of  the  sky ; 

Struck  by  his  breath,  the  forest  whitens ; 
Fluttering  waters  feel  him  nigh ! 

Stroke  on  stroke  of  his  thunder-hammer  - 
Sheets  of  flame  from  his  anvil  hurled  - 

Heaven's  doors  are  burst  in  the  clamor : 
He  alone  possesses  the  world  1 

IV. 

Drowned  woods,  shudder  no  more  : 
Vexed  lakes,  smile  as  before  : 


43 

Hills  that  vanished,  appear  again : 
Rise  for  harvest,  prostrate  grain ! 

Shake  thy  jewels,  twinkling  grass  : 
Blossoms,  tint  the  winds  that  pass : 
Sun,  behold  a  world  restored ! 
World,  again  thy  sun  is  lord  ! 

Thunder-spasms  the  waking  be 
Into  Life  from  Apathy : 
Life,  not  Death,  is  in  the  gale,  — 
Let  the  coming  Doom  prevail ! 


THUS  far  he  read :  at  first  with  even  tone, 
Still  chanting  in  the  old,  familiar  key,  — - 
That  golden  note,  whose  grand  monotony 
Is  musical  in  poets'  mouths  alone,  — 
But  broken,  as  he  read,  became  the  chime. 
To  speak,  once  more,  in  Grief's  forgotten  tongue, 
And  feel  the  hot  reflex  of  passion  flung 
Back  on  the  heart  by  every  pulse  of  rhyme 
Wherein  it  lives  and  burns,  a  soul  might  shake 
More  calm  than  his.     With  many  a  tender  break 
Of  voice,  a  dimness  of  the  haughty  eye, 
And  pause  of  wandering  memory,  he  read ; 
While  I,  with  folded  arms  and  downcast  head, 
In  silence  heard  each  blind,  bewildered  cry. 

Thus  far  had  Ernest  read :  but,  closing  now 
The  book,  and  lifting  up  a  calmer  brow, 
"  Forgive  me,  patient  God,  for  this  !  "  he  said  : 
"  And  you  forgive,  dear  friend,  and  dearest  wife, 
If  I  have  marred  an  hour  of  this  sweet  life 
With  noises  from  the  valley  of  the  Dead. 


45 


Long,  long  ago,  the  Hand  whereat  I  railed 

In  blindness  gave  me  courage  to  subdue 

This  wild  revolt :  I  see  wherein  I  failed : 

My  heart  was  false,  when  most  I  thought  it  true, 

My  sorrow  selfish,  when  I  thought  it  pure. 

For  those  we  lose,  if  still  their  love  endure 

Translation  to  that  other  land  where  Love 

Breathes  the  immortal  wisdom,  ask  in  heaven 

No  greater  sacrifice  than  we  had  given 

On  earth,  our  love's  integrity  to  prove. 

If  we  are  blest  to  know  the  other  blest, 

Then  treason  lies  in  sorrow.     Vainly  said  ! 

Alone  each  heart  must  cover  up  its  dead  ; 

Alone,  through  bitter  toil,  achieve  its  rest : 

Which  I  have  found  —  but  still  these  records  keep, 

Lest  I,  condemning  others,  should  forget 

My  own  rebellion.     From  these  tares  I  reap, 

In  evil  days,  a  fruitful  harvest  yet. 

"  But 't  is  enough,  to-night.     Nay,  Philip,  here 
A  chapter  closes.     See  !  the  moon  is  near : 
Your  laurels  glitter :  come,  my  darling,  sing 
The  hymn  I  wrote  on  such  a  night  as  this ! " 
Then  Edith,  stooping  first  to  take  his  kiss, 
Drew  from  its  niche  of  woodbine  her  guitar, 
With  chords  prelusive  tuned  a  slackened  string, 


46 


And  sang,  clear-voiced,  as  some  melodious  star 
"Were  dropping  silver  sweetness  from  afar : 

God,  to  whom  we  look  up  blindly, 
Look  Thou  down  upon  us  kindly : 
We  have  sinned,  but  not  designedly. 

Jf  our  faith  in  Thee  was  shaken, 
Pardon  Thou  our  hearts  mistaken, 
Our  obedience  reawaken. 

We  are  sinful,  Thou  art  holy  : 
Thou  art  mighty,  we  are  lowly : 
Let  us  reach  Thee,  climbing  slowly. 

Our  ingratitude  confessing, 

On  Thy  mercy  still  transgressing, 

Thou  dost  punish  us  with  blessing  ! 


SECOND    EVENING. 

IT  was  the  evening  of  the  second  day, 
Which  swifter,  sweeter  than  the  first  had  fled  •. 
My  heart's  delicious  tumult  passed  away, 
And  left  a  sober  happiness  instead. 
For  Ernest's  voice  was  ever  in  mine  ear, 
His  presence  mingled  as  of  old  with  mine, 
But  stronger,  manlier,  brighter,  more  divine 
Its  effluence  now  :  within  his  starry  sphere 
Of  love  new-risen  my  nature  too  was  drawn, 
And  warmed  with  rosy  flushes  of  the  dawn. 

All  day  we  drove  about  the  lovely  vales, 
Under  the  hill-side  farms,  through  summer  woods, 
The  land  of  mingled  homes  and  solitudes 
That  Ernest  loved.     We  told  the  dear  old  tales 
Of  childhood,  music  new  to  Edith's  ear, 
Sang  olden  songs,  lived  old  adventures  o'er, 
And,  when  the  hours  brought  need  of  other  cheer, 


48 


Spread  on  the  ferny  rocks  a  tempting  store 

Of  country  dainties.     JT  was  our  favorite  dell, 

Cut  by  the  trout-stream  through  a  wooded  ridge  : 

Above,  the  highway  on  a  mossy  bridge 

Strode  o'er  it,  and  below,  the  water  fell 

Through  hornblende  bowlders,  where  the  dircus  flung 

His  pliant  rods,  the  berried  spice-wood  grew, 

And  tulip-trees  and  smooth  magnolias  hung 

A  million  leaves  between  us  and  the  blue. 

The  silver  water-dust  in  puffs  arose 

And  turned  to  dust  of  jewels  in  the  sun, 

And  like  a  canon,  in  its  close  begun 

Afresh,  the  stream's  perpetual  lullaby 

Sang  down  the  dell,  and  deepened  its  repose. 

Here,  till  the  western  hours  had  left  the  sky, 

We  sat :  then  homeward  loitered  through  the  dusk 

Of  chestnut  woods,  along  the  meadow-side, 

And  lost  in  lanes  that  breathed  ambrosial  musk 

Of  wild-grape  blossoms :  and  the  twilight  died. 

Long  after  every  star  came  out,  we  paced 
The  terrace,  still  discoursing  on  the  themes 
The  day  had  started,  intermixed  with  dreams 
Born  of  the  summer  night.     Then,  golden-faced, 
Behind  her  daybreak  of  auroral  gleams, 
The  moon  arose  :  the  bosom  of  the  lawn 


49 


Whitened  beneath  her  silent  snow  of  light, 
Save  where  the  trees  made  isles  of  mystic  night, 
Dark  blots  against  the  rising  splendor  drawn, 
And  where  the  eastern  wall  of  woodland  towered, 
Blue  darkness,  filled  with  undistinguished  shapes : 
But  elsewhere,  over  all  the  landscape  showered  — 
A  silver  drizzle  on  the  distant  capes 
Of  hills  —  the  glory  of  the  moon.     We  sought, 
Drawn  thither  by  the  same  unspoken  thought, 
The  mound,  where  now  the  leaves  of  laurel  clashed 
Their  dagger-points  of  light,  around  the  bower, 
And  through  the  nets  of  leaf  and  elfin  flower, 
Cold  fire,  the  sprinkled  drops  of  moonshine  flashed. 

Erelong  in  Ernest's  hand  the  volume  lay, 
(I  did  not  need  a  second  time  to  ask,) 
And  he  resumed  the  intermitted  task. 
"  This  night,  dear  Philip,  is  the  Poet's  day," 
He  said  :  "  the  world  is  one  confessional: 
Our  sacred  memories  as  freely  fall 
As  leaves  from  o'er-ripe  blossoms :  we  betray 
Ourselves  to  Nature,  who  the  tale  can  win 
We  shrink  from  uttering  in  the  daylight's  din. 
So,  Friend,  come  back  with  me  a  little  way 
Along  the  years,  and  in  these  records  find 
The  sole  inscriptions  they  have  left  behind." 
3  D 


ATONEMENT. 

IF  thou  hadst  died  at  midnight, 
With  a  lamp  beside  thy  bed  ; 

The  beauty  of  sleep  exchanging 
For  the  beauty  of  the  dead : 

When  the  bird  of  heaven  had  called  thee, 
And  the  time  had  come  to  go, 

And  the  northern  lights  were  dancing 
On  the  dim  December  snow  — 

If  thou  hadst  died  at  midnight, 
I  had  ceased  to  bid  thee  stay, 

Hearing  the  feet  of  the  Father 
Leading  His  child  away. 


51 

I  had  knelt,  in  the  awful  Presence, 
And  covered  my  guilty  head, 

And  received  His  absolution 
For  my  sins  toward  the  dead. 

But  the  cruel  sun  was  shining 

In  the  cold  and  windy  sky, 
And  Life,  with  his  mocking  voices, 

Looked  in  to  see  thee  die. 

God  came  and  went  unheeded  ; 

No  tear  repentant  shone ; 
And  he  took  the  heart  from  my  bosom, 

And  left  in  its  place  a  stone. 

Each  trivial  promise  broken, 

Each  tender  word  unsaid, 
Must  be  evermore  unspoken,  — 

Unpardoned  by  the  dead. 

Unpardoned  ?     No  :  the  struggle 
Of  years  was  not  in  vain,  — 

The  patience  that  wearies  passion, 
And  the  prayers  that  conquer  pain. 


52 

This  tardy  resignation 
May  be  the  blessed  sign 

Of  pardon  and  atonement, 
Thy  spirit  sends  to  mine. 

Now  first  I  dare  remember 
That  day  of  death  and  woe ; 

Within,  the  dreadful  silence, 
Without,  the  sun  and  snow ! 


DECEMBER. 

THE  beech  is  bare,  and  bare  the  ash, 

The  thickets  white  below ; 
The  fir-tree  scowls  with  hoar  moustache, 

He  cannot  sing  for  snow. 

The  body-guard  of  veteran  pines, 

A  grim  battalion,  stands  ; 
They  ground  their  arms,  in  ordered  lines, 

For  Winter  so  commands. 

The  waves  are  dumb  along  the  shore, 

The  river's  pulse  is  still ; 
The  north-wind's  bugle  blows  no  more 

Reveille*  from  the  hill. 

The  rustling  sift  of  falling  snow, 

The  muffled  crush  of  leaves, 
These  are  the  sounds  suppressed,  that  show 

How  much  the  forest  grieves  ; 


54 

But,  as  the  blind  and  vacant  Day 

Crawls  to  his  ashy  bed, 
I  hear  dull  echoes  far  away, 

Like  drums  above  the  dead. 

Sigh  with  me,  Pine  that  never  changed  ! 

Thou  wear'st  the  Summer's  hue  ; 
Her  other  loves  are  all  estranged, 

But  thou  and  I  are  true  1 


SYLVAN   SPIRITS. 

THE  gray  stems  rise,  the  branches  braid 
A  covering  of  deepest  shade. 
Beneath  these  old,  inviolate  trees 
There  comes  no  stealthy,  sliding  breeze, 
To  overhear  their  mysteries. 

Steeped  in  the  fragrant  breath  of  leaves, 
My  heart  a  hermit  peace  receives  : 
The  sombre  forest  thrusts  a  screen 
My  refuge  and  the  world  between, 
And  beds  me  in  its  balmy  green. 

No  fret  of  life  may  here  intrude, 

To  vex  the  sylvan  solitude. 

Pure  spirits  of  the  earth  and  air, 

From  hollow  trunk  and  bosky  lair 

Come  forth,  and  hear  your  lover's  prayer  ! 

Come,  Druid  soul  of  ancient  oak, 
Thou,  too,  hast  felt  the  thunder-stroke  ; 


56 

Come,  Hamadryad  of  the  beech, 
Nymph  of  the  burning  maple,  teach 
My  heart  the  solace  of  your  speech  ! 

Alas  !  the  sylvan  ghosts  preserve 
The  natures  of  the  race  they  serve. 
Not  only  Dryads,  chaste  and  shy, 
But  piping  Fauns,  come  dancing  nigh, 
And  Satyrs  of  the  shaggy  thigh. 

Across  the  calm,  the  holy  hush 
And  shadowed  air,  there  darts  a  flush 
Of  riot,  from  the  lawless  brood, 
And  rebel  voices  in  my  blood 
Salute  these  orgies  of  the  wood. 

Not  sacred  thoughts  alone  engage 

The  saint  in  silent  hermitage  : 

The  soul  within  him  heavenward  strives, 

Yet  strong,  as  in  profaner  lives, 

The  giant  of  the  flesh  survives. 

From  Nature,  as  from  human  haunts, 
That  giant  draws  his  sustenance. 
By  her  own  elves,  in  woodlands  wild 
She  sees  her  robes  of  prayer  defiled  : 
She  is  not  purer  than  her  child. 


THE   LOST  MAY. 

WHEN  May,  with  cowslip-braided  locks, 

Walks  through  the  land  in  green  attire, 
And  burns  in  meadow-grass  the  phlox 
His  torch  of  purple  fire : 

When  buds  have  burst  the  silver  sheath, 
And  shifting  pink,  and  gray,  and  gold 
Steal  o'er  the  woods,  while  fair  beneath 
The  bloomy  vales  unfold : 

When,  emerald-bright,  the  hemlock  stands 

New-feathered,  needled  new  the  pine ; 
And,  exiles  from  the  orient  lands, 
The  turbaned  tulips  shine : 
3* 


58 


When  wild  azaleas  deck  the  knoll, 

And  cinque-foil  stars  the  fields  of  home, 
And  winds,  that  take  the  white-weed,  roll 
The  meadows  into  foam  : 


Then  from  the  jubilee  I  turn 

To  other  Mays  that  I  have  seen, 
Where  more  resplendent  blossoms  burn, 
And  statelier  woods  are  green  ;  — 

Mays,  when  my  heart  expanded  first, 

A  honeyed  blossom,  fresh  with  dew  ; 
And  one  sweet  wind  of  heaven  dispersed 
The  only  clouds  I  knew. 

For  she,  whose  softly-murmured  name 
The  music  of  the  month  expressed, 
Walked  by  my  side,  in  holy  shame 
Of  girlish  love  confessed. 

The  budding  chestnuts  overhead, 

Their  sprinkled  shadows  in  the  lane,  — 
Blue  flowers  along  the  brooklet's  bed,  — 
I  see  them  all  a#ain  ! 


59 

The  old,  old  tale  of  girl  and  boy, 

Repeated  ever,  never  old  : 
To  each  in  turn  the  gates  of  joy, 

The  gates  of  heaven  unfold. 

And  when  the  punctual  May  arrives, 
With  cowslip-garland  on  her  brow, 
We  know  what  once  she  gave  our  lives, 
And  cannot  give  us  now  ! 


CHURCH-YARD  ROSES. 

THE  woodlands  wore  a  gloomy  green, 
The  tawny  stubble  clad  the  hill, 

And  August  hung  her  smoky  screen 
Above  the  valleys,  hot  and  still. 

No  life  was  in  the  fields  that  day  ; 

My  steps  were  safe  from  curious  eyes  : 
I  wandered  where,  in  church-yard  clay, 

The  dust  of  love  and  beauty  lies. 

Around  me  thrust  the  nameless  graves 
Their  fatal  ridges,  side  by  side, 

So  green,  they  seemed  but  grassy  waves, 
Yet  quiet  as  the  dead  they  hide. 

And  o'er  each  pillow  of  repose 
Some  innocent  memento  grew, 

Of  pansy,  pink,  or  lowly  rose, 
Or  hyssop,  lavender,  and  rue. 


61 


What  flower  is  hers,  the  maiden  bride  ? 

What  sacred  plant  protects  her  bed  ? 
I  saw,  the  greenest  mound  beside, 

A  rose  of  dark  and  lurid  red. 

An  eye  of  fierce  demoniac  stain, 

It  mocked  my  calm  and  chastened  grief ; 

I  tore  it,  stung  with  sudden  pain, 

And  stamped  in  earth  each  bloody  leaf 

And  down  upon  that  trampled  grave 
In  recklessness  my  body  cast  : 

"  Give  back  the  life  I  could  not  save, 
Or  give  deliverance  from  the  Past ! " 

But  something  gently  touched  my  cheek, 
Caressing  while  its  touch  reproved  : 

A  rose,  all  white  and  snowy-meek, 
It  grew  upon  the  dust  I  loved ! 

A  breeze  the  holy  blossom  pressed 
Upon  my  lips  :  dear  Saint,  I  cried, 

Still  blooms  the  white  rose,  in  my  breast, 
Of  Love  that  Death  has  sanctified ! 


AUTUMNAL    DREAMS. 


WHEN  the  maple  turns  to  crimson 
And  the  sassafras  to  gold  ; 

When  the  gentian  's  in  the  meadow, 
And  the  aster  on  the  wold  ; 

When  the  noon  is  lapped  in  vapor 
And  the  night  is  frosty-cold : 

n. 

WTien  the  chestnut-burs  are  opened, 
And  the  acorns  drop  like  hail, 

And  the  drowsy  air  is  startled 
With  the  thumping  of  the  flail, — 

With  the  drumming  of  the  partridge 
And  the  whistle  of  the  quail : 


63 


m. 

Through  the  rustling  woods  I  wander, 
Through  the  jewels  of  the  year, 

From  the  yellow  uplands  calling, 
Seeking  her  that  still  is  dear  : 

She  is  near  me  in  the  autumn, 
She,  the  beautiful,  is  near. 

IV. 

Tli rough  the  smoke  of  burning  summer, 
When  the  weary  winds  are  still, 

1  can  see  her  in  the  valley, 
I  can  hear  her  on  the  hill, — 

In  the  splendor  of  the  woodlands, 
In  the  whisper  of  the  rill. 


v. 


For  the  shores  of  Earth  and  Heaven 
Meet,  and  mingle  in  the  blue  : 

She  can  wander  down  the  glory 
To  the  places  that  she  knew, 

Where  the  happy  lovers  wandered 
In  the  days  when  life  was  true. 


VI. 

So  I  think,  when  days  are  sweetest, 
And  the  world  is  wholly  fair, 

She  may  sometime  steal  upon  me 
Through  the  dimness  of  the  air, 

With  the  cross  upon  her  bosom 
And  the  amaranth  in  her  hair. 

VII. 

Once  to  meet  her,  ah  !  to  meet  her, 
And  to  hold  her  gently  fast 

Till  I  blessed  her,  till  she  blessed  me, 
That  were  happiness,  at  last : 

That  were  bliss  beyond  our  meetings 
In  the  autumns  of  the  Past ! 


IN    WINTER. 

THE  valley  stream  is  frozen, 
The  hills  are  cold  and  bare, 

And  the  wild  white  bees  of  winter 
Swarm  in  the  darkened  air. 

I  look  on  the  naked  forest : 
Was  it  ever  green  in  June  ? 

Did  it  burn  with  gold  and  crimson 
In  the  dim  autumnal  noon  ? 

I  look  on  the  barren  meadow : 
Was  it  ever  heaped  with  hay  ? 

Did  it  hide  the  grassy  cottage 

Where  the  skylark's  children  lay  ? 

I  look  on  the  desolate  garden : 
Is  it  true  the  rose  was  there  ? 

And  the  woodbine's  musky  blossoms, 
And  the  hyacinth's  purple  hair  ? 


66 


I  look  on  my  heart,  and  marvel 
If  Love  were  ever  its  own,  — 

If  the  spring  of  promise  brightened, 
And  the  summer  of  passion  shone  ? 

Is  the  stem  of  bliss  but  withered, 
And  the  root  survives  the  blast  ? 

Are  the  seeds  of  the  Future  sleeping 
Under  the  leaves  of  the  Past  ? 

Ah,  yes !  for  a  thousand  Aprils 
The  frozen  germs  shall  grow, 

And  the  dews  of  a  thousand  summers 
Wait  in  the  womb  of  the  snow ! 


YOUNG    LOVE. 

WE  are  not  old,  we  are  not  cold, 

Our  hearts  are  warm  and  tender  yet ; 

Our  arms  are  eager  to  enfold 

More  bounteous  love  than  we  have  met. 

Still  many  another  heart  lays  bare 
Its  secret  chamber  to  our  eyes, 

Though  dim  with  passion's  lurid  air, 
Or  pure  as  morns  of  Paradise. 

They  give  the  love,  whose  glory  lifts 
Desire  beyond  the  realm  of  sense ; 

They  make  us  rich  with  lavish  gifts, 
The  wealth  of  noble  confidence. 

We  must  be  happy,  must  be  proud, 

So  crowned  with  human  trust  and  truth ; 

But  ah !  the  love  that  first  we  vowed, 
The  dear  religion  of  our  youth  ! 


68 


Voluptuous  bloom  and  fragrance  rare 
The  summer  to  its  rose  may  bring ; 

Far  sweeter  to  the  wooing  air 
The  hidden  violet  of  the  spring. 


Still,  still  that  lovely  ghost  appears, 
Too  fair,  too  pure,  to  bid  depart ; 

No  riper  love  of  later  years 

Can  steal  its  beauty  from  the  heart. 

0  splendid  sun  that  shone  above ! 

O  green  magnificence  of  Earth  ! 
Born  once  into  that  land  of  love, 

No  life  can  know  a  second  birth. 


Dear,  boyish  heart,  that  trembled  so 
With  bashful  fear  and  fond  unrest,  — 

More  frightened  than  a  dove,  to  know 
Another  bird  within  its  nest ! 


Sharp  thrills  of  doubt,  wild  hopes  that  came, 
Fond  words  addressed,  —  each  word  a  pan< 

Then  —  hearts,  baptized  in  heavenly  flame, 
How  like  the  morning  stars  ye  sang ! 


69 


Love  bound  ye  with  his  holiest  link, 
The  faith  in  each  that  asks  no  more, 

And  led  ye  from  the  sacred  brink 
Of  mysteries  he  held  in  store. 

Love  led  ye,  children,  from  the  bowers 

Where  Strength  and  Beauty  find  his  crown 

Ye  were  not  ripe  for  mortal  flowers  ; 
God's  angel  brought  an  amaranth  down. 

Our  eyes  are  dim  with  fruitless  tears, 
Our  eyes  are  dim,  our  hearts  are  sore : 

That  lost  religion  of  our  years 
Comes  never,  never,  nevermore ! 


THE    CHAPEL. 

LIKE  one  who  leaves  the  trampled  street 
For  some  cathedral,  cool  and  dim, 

Where  he  can  hear  in  music  beat 

The  heart  of  prayer,  that  beats  for  him  ; 

And  sees  the  common  light  of  day, 

Through  painted  panes  transfigured,  shine, 

And  casts  his  human  woes  away, 
In  presence  of  the  "Woe  Divine : 

So  I,  from  life's  tormenting  themes 
Turn  where  the  silent  chapel  lies, 

Whose  windows  burn  with  vanished  dreams, 
Whose  altar-lights  are  memories. 

There,  watched  by  pitying  cherubim, 

In  sacred  hush,  I  rest  awhile, 
Till  solemn  sounds  of  harp  and  hymn 

Begin  to  sweep  the  haunted  aisle : 


71 


A  hymn  that  once  but  breathed  complaint, 
And  breathes  but  resignation  now, 

Since  God  has  heard  the  pleading  saint, 
And  laid  His  hand  upon  my  brow. 

Restored  and  comforted,  I  go 
To  grapple  with  my  tasks  again ; 

Through  silent  worship  taught  to  know 
The  blessed  peace  that  follows  pain. 


IF   LOVE   SHOULD   COME  AGAIN. 

IF  Love  should  come  again,  I  ask  my  heart 
In  tender  tremors,  not  unmixed  with  pain, 
Couldst  thou  be  calm,  nor  feel  thine  ancient  smart, 
If  Love  should  come  again  ? 

Couldst  thou  unbar  the  chambers  where  his  nest 

So  long  was  made,  and  made,  alas  !  in  vain, 
Nor  with  embarrassed  welcome  chill  thy  guest, 
If  Love  should  come  again  ? 

Would  Love  his  ruined  quarters  recognize, 

Where  shrouded  pictures  of  the  Past  remain, 
And  gently  turn  them  with  forgiving  eyes, 
If  Love  should  come  again  ? 

Would  bliss,  in  milder  type,  spring  up  anew, 

As  silent  craters  with  the  scarlet  stain 
Of  flowers  repeat  the  lava's  ancient  hue, 
If  Love  should  come  again  ? 


73 


Would  Fate,  relenting,  sheathe  the  cruel  blade 
Whereby  the  angel  of  thy  youth  was  slain, 
That  thou  might'st  all  possess  him,  unafraid, 
If  Love  should  come  again  ? 

In  vain  I  ask :  my  heart  makes  no  reply, 
But  echoes  evermore  the  sweet  refrain  ; 
Till,  trembling  lest  it  seem  a  wish,  I  sigh  : 
If  Love  should  come  again  ! 


"  THE  darkness  and  the  twilight  have  an  end," 

Said  Ernest,  as  he  laid  the  book  aside, 

And,  with  a  tenderness  he  could  not  hide, 

Smiled,  seeing  in  the  eyes  of  wife  and  friend 

The  same  soft  dew  that  made  his  own  so  dim. 

My  heart  was  strangely  moved,  but  not  for  him. 

The  holy  night,  the  stars  that  twinkled  faint, 

Serfs  of  the  regnant  moon,  the  slumbering  trees 

And  silvery  hills,  recalled  fair  memories 

Of  her  I  knew,  his  life's  translated  saint, 

Who  seemed  too  sacred  now,  too  far  removed, 

To  be  by  him  lamented  or  beloved. 

And  yet  she  stood,  I  knew,  by  Ernest's  side 

Invisible,  a  glory  in  the  heart, 

A  light  of  peace,  the  inner  counterpart 

Of  that  which  round  us  poured  its  radiant  tide. 

We  sat  in  silence,  till  a  wind,  astray 

From  some  uneasy  planet,  shook  the  vines 

And  sprinkled  us  with  snow  of  eglantines. 

The  laurels  rustled  as  it  passed  away, 

And,  million-tongued,  the  woodland  whisper  crept 


75 


Of  leaves  that  turned  in  sleep,  from  tree  to  tree 

All  down  the  lawn,  and  once  again  they  slept. 

Then  Edith  from  her  tender  fantasy 

Awoke,  yet  still  her  pensive  posture  kept, 

Her  white  hands  motionless  upon  her  knee, 

Her  eyes  upon  a  star  that  sparkled  through 

The  mesh  of  leaves,  and  hummed  a  wandering  air, 

(As  if  the  music  of  her  thought  it  were,) 

Low,  sweet,  and  sad,  until  to  words  it  grew 

That  made  it  sweeter,  —  words  that  Ernest  knew  : 

Love,  I  follow,  follow  thee, 

Wipe  thine  eyes  and  tJiou  shall  see  : 

Sorrow  makes  thee  blind  to  me. 

I  am  with  thee,  blessing,  blest ; 
Let  thy  doubts  be  laid  to  rest  : 
Rise,  and  take  me  to  thy  breast ! 

In  thy  bliss  my  steps  behold: 
Stretch  thine  arms  and  bliss  enfold: 
JT  is  thy  sorrow  makes  me  cold. 

Life  is  good,  and  life  is  fair, 
Love  awaits  thee  everywhere : 
Love!  is  Love's  immortal  prayer. 


76 

Live  for  love,  and  thou  shalt  be, 
Loving  others,  true  to  me  : 
Love,  I  follow,  follow  thee  ! 

Thus  Edith  sang :  the  stars  heard,  and  the  night, 
The  happy  spirits,  leaning  from  the  wall 
Of  Heaven,  the  saints,  and  God  above  them  all, 
Heard  what  she  sang.     She  ceased :  her  brow  was  bright 
With  other  splendor  than  the  moon's :  she  rose, 
Gave  each  a  hand,  and  silently  we  trod 
The  dry,  white  gravel  and  the  dewy  sod, 
And  silently  we  parted  for  repose. 


THIRD    EVENING. 

FOB  days  before,  the  wild-dove  cooed  for  rain. 
The  sky  had  been  too  bright,  the  world  too  fair. 
"VVe  knew  such  loveliness  could  not  remain  : 
We  heard  its  ruin  by  the  flattering  air 
Foretold,  that  o'er  the  fields  so  sweetly  blew, 
Yet  came,  at  night,  a  banshee,  moaning  through 
The  chimney's  throat,  and  at  the  window  wailed : 
We  heard  the  tree-toad  trill  his  piercing  note : 
The  sound  seemed  near  us,  when,  on  farms  remote, 
The  supper-horn  the  scattered  workmen  hailed : 
Above  the  roof  the  eastward-pointing  vane 
Stood  fixed :  and  still  the  wild-dove  cooed  for  rain. 

So,  when  the  morning  came,  and  found  no  fire 
Upon  her  hearth,  and  wrapped  her  shivering  form 
In  cloud,  and  rising  winds  in  many  a  gyre 
Of  dust  foreran  the  footsteps  of  the  storm, 


78 


And  woods  grew  dark,  and  flowery  meadows  chill, 

And  gray  annihilation  smote  the  hill, 

I  said  to  Ernest :  "  "T  was  my  plan,  you  see : 

Two  days  to  Nature,  and  the  third  to  me. 

For  you  must  stay,  perforce  :  the  day  is  doomed. 

No  visitors  shall  yonder  valley  find, 

Except  the  spirits  of  the  rain  and  wind  : 

Here  you  must  bide,  my  friends,  with  me  entombed 

In  this  dim  crypt,  where  shelved  around  us  lie 

The  mummied  authors."     "  Place  me,  when  I  die," 

Laughed  Ernest,  "  in  as  fair  a  catacomb, 

I  shall  not  call  posterity  unjust, 

That  leaves  my  bones  in  Shakespeare's,  Goethe's  home, 

Like  king  and  beggar  mixed  in  Memphian  dust. 

But  you  are  right :  this  day  we  well  may  give 

To  you,  dear  Philip,  and  to  those  who  stand 

Protecting  Nature  with  a  jealous  hand, 

At  once  her  subjects  and  her  haughty  lords ; 

Since,  in  the  breath  of  their  immortal  words 

Alone,  she  first  begins  to  speak  and  live." 

I  know  not,  if  that  day  of  dreary  rain 
Was  not  the  happiest  of  the  happy  three. 
For  Nature  gives,  but  takes  away  again  : 
Sound,  odor,  color  —  blossom,  cloud,  and  tree 
Divide  and  scatter  in  a  thousand  rays 


79 


Our  individual  being  :  but,  in  days 

Of  gloom,  the  wandering  senses  crowding  come 

To  the  close  circle  of  the  heart.     So  we, 

Cosily  nestled  in  the  library, 

Enjoyed  each  other  and  the  warmth  of  home. 

Each  window  was  a  picture  of  the  rain : 

Blown  by  the  wind,  tormented,  wet,  and  gray, 

Losing  itself  in  cloud,  the  landscape  lay  ; 

Or  wavered,  blurred,  behind  the  streaming  pane ; 

Or,  with  a  sudden  struggle,  shook  away 

Its  load,  and  like  a  foundering  ship  arose 

Distinct  and  dark  above  the  driving  spray, 

Until  a  fiercer  onset  came,  to  close 

The  hopeless  day.     The  roses  writhed  about 

Their  stakes,  the  tall  laburnums  to  and  fro 

Rocked  in  the  gusts,  the  flowers  were  beaten  low, 

And  from  his  pigmy  house  the  wren  looked  out 

With  dripping  bill :  each  living  creature  fled, 

To  seek  some  sheltering  cover  for  its  head : 

Yet  colder,  drearier,  wilder  as  it  blew, 

TVe  drew  the  closer,  and  the  happier  grew. 

She  with  her  needle,  he  with  pipe  and  book, 
My  guests  contented  sat :  my  cheerful  dame, 
Intent  on  household  duties,  went  and  came, 
And  I  unto  my  childless  bosom  took 


80 


The  little  two-year  Arthur,  Ernest's  child, 
A  darling  boy,  to  both  his  parents  true,  — 
With  father's  brow,  and  mother's  eyes  of  blue, 
And  the  same  dimpled  beauty  when  he  smiled. 
Ah  me !  the  father's  heart  within  me  woke : 
The  child  that  never  was,  I  seemed  to  hold : 
The  withered  tenderness  that  bloomed  of  old 
In  vain,  revived  when  little  Arthur  spoke 
Of  "  Papa  Philip ! "  and  his  balmy  kiss 
Renewed  lost  yearnings  for  a  father's  bliss. 
And  something  glittered  in  the  boy's  bright  hair 
I  kissed  him  back,  but  turned  away  my  head 
To  hide  the  pang  I  would  not  have  thee  share, 
Dear  wife  !  from  whom  the  dearest  promise  fled. 
God  cannot  chide  so  sacred  a  despair, 
But  still  I  dream  that  somewhere  there  must  be 
The  spirit  of  a  child  that  waits  for  me. 

And  evening  fell,  and  Arthur,  rosy-limbed 
And  snowy-gowned,  in  human  beauty  sweet, 
Came  pattering  up  with  little  naked  feet 
To  kiss  the  good-night  cup,  that  overbrimmed 
With  love  two  fathers  and  two  mothers  gave. 
The  steady  rain  against  the  windows  drave, 
And  round  the  house  the  noises  of  the  night 
Mixed  in  a  lulling  music  :  dry  old  wood 


81 


Burned  on  the  hearth  in  leaps  of  ruddy  light, 

And  on  the  table  purple  beakers  stood 

Of  harmless  wine,  from  grapes  that  ripened  on 

The  sunniest  hill-sides  of  the  smooth  Garonne. 

When  Arthur  slept,  and  doors  were  closed,  and  we 

Sat  folded  in  a  sweeter  privacy 

Than  even  the  secret-loving  moon  bestows, 

Spoke  Ernest :  "  Edith,  shall  I  read  the  rest  ?  " 

She,  while  the  spirit  of  a  happy  rose 

Visited  her  cheeks,  consenting  smiled,  and  pressed 

The  hand  he  gave.     "  With  what  I  now  shall  read," 

He  added,  "  Philip,  you  must  be  content. 

No  further  runs  my  journal,  nor,  indeed, 

Beyond  this  chapter  is  there  further  need  ; 

Because  the  gift  of  Song  was  chiefly  lent 

To  give  consoling  music  for  the  joys 

We  lack,  and  not  for  those  which  we  possess : 

I  now  no  longer  need  that  gift,  to  bless 

My  heart,  —  your  heart,  my  Edith,  and  your  boy's ! ' 

Therewith  he  read :  the  fingers  of  the  rain 
In  light  staccatos  on  the  window  played, 
Mixed  with  the  flame's  contented  hum,  and  made 
Low  harmonies  to  suit  the  varied  strain. 


THE    RETURN    OF    SPRING. 

HAVE  I  passed  through  Death's  unconscious  birth, 

In  a  dream  the  midnight  bare  ? 
I  look  on  another  and  fairer  Earth : 

I  breathe  a  wondrous  air ! 

A  spirit  of  beauty  walks  the  hills, 

A  spirit  of  love  the  plain  ; 
The  shadows  are  bright,  and  the  sunshine  fills 

The  air  with  a  diamond  rain  ! 

Before  my  vision  the  glories  swim, 

To  the  dance  of  a  tune  unheard : 
Is  an  angel  singing  where  woods  are  dim, 

Or  is  it  an  amorous  bird  ? 

Is  it  a  spike  of  azure  flowers, 

Deep  in  the  meadows  seen, 
Or  is  it  the  peacock's  neck,  that  towers 

Out  of  the  spangled  green  ? 


83 


Is  a  white  dove  glancing  across  the  blue, 

Or  an  opal  taking  wing  ? 
For  my  soul  is  dazzled  through  and  through, 

With  the  splendor  of  the  Spring. 

Is  it  she  that  shines,  as  never  before, 

The  tremulous  hills  above,  — 
Or  the  heart  within  me,  awake  once  more 

To  the  dawning  light  of  love  ? 


MORNING. 

ALONG  the  east,  where  late  the  dark  impended, 

A  dusky  gleam  is  born : 
The  watches  of  the  night  are  ended, 

And  heaven  foretells  the  morn  ! 

The  hills  of  home,  no  longer  hurled  together 

In  one  wide  blotch  of  night, 
Lift  up  their  heads  through  misty  ether, 

Distinct  in  rising  light. 

Then,  after  pangs  of  darkness  slowly  dying, 

O'er  the  delivered  world 
Comes  Morn,  with  every  banner  flying 

And  every  sail  unfurled ! 

So  long  the  night,  so  chill,  so  blank  and  dreary, 

I  thought  the  sun  was  dead  ; 
But  yonder  burn  his  beacons  cheery 

On  peaks  of  cloudy  red  : 


85 


And  yonder  fly  his  scattered  golden  arrows, 

And  smite  the  hills  with  day, 
While  Night  her  vain  dominion  narrows 

And  westward  wheels  away. 

A  sweeter  air  revives  the  new  creation, 

The  dews  are  tears  of  bliss, 
And  Earth,  in  amorous  palpitation, 

Receives  her  bridegroom's  kiss. 

Bathed  in  the  morning,  let  my  heart  surrender 

The  doubts  that  darkness  gave, 
And  rise  to  meet  the  advancing  splendor  — 

0  Night !  no  more  thy  slave. 

I  breathe  at  last,  thy  gloomy  reign  forgetting, 

Thy  weary  watches  done, 
Thy  last  pale  star  behind  me  setting, 

The  freedom  of  the  sun  ! 


QUESTIONS. 

ONE  thought  sits  brooding  in  my  bosom, 

As  broodeth  in  her  nest  the  dove ; 
A  strange,  delicious  doubt  o'ercomes  me,  - 
But  is  it  love  ? 

I  see  her,  hear  her,  daily,  nightly  : 

My  secret  dreams  around  her  move, 
Still  nearer  drawn  in  sweet  attraction ;  — 
Can  this  be  love  ? 

Is  't  love  without  his  tender  tumult  ? 

Or  passion  purified  from  pain  ? 
In  calmer  forms  the  old  emotions 
Returned  again  ? 

So  still  the  stream,  towards  her  setting, 

I  whisper :  Can  it  rise  above 
Her  banks,  and  flood  the  guarded  island 
Where  blooms  her  love  ? 


87 


Will  she,  to  hear  a  voice  so  timid, 

A  shy  and  doubtful  heart  incline, 
Though  desperate  hope  and  endless  longing 
Awake  in  mine  ? 

I  breathe  but  peace  when  she  is  near  me,  — 

A  peace  her  absence  takes  away  : 
My  heart  commands  her  constant  presence : 
Will  hers  obey  ? 


THE    VISION. 


SHE  came,  long  absent  from  my  side, 
And  absent  from  my  dreams,  she  came, 

The  earthly  and  the  heavenly  bride, 

In  maiden  beauty  glorified : 

She  looked  upon  me,  angel-eyed : 
She  called  me  by  my  name. 

n. 

But  I,  whose  heart  to  meet  her  sprang 

And  shook  the  fragile  house  of  dreams, 
Stood,  smitten  with  a  guilty  pang  : 
In  other  groves  and  temples  rang 
The  songs  that  once  for  her  I  sang, 
By  woods  and  faery  streams. 


89 


in. 

Her  eyes  had  power  to  lift  my  head, 
And,  timorous  as  a  truant  child, 

I  met  the  sacred  light  they  shed, 

The  light  of  heaven  around  her  spread ; 

She  read  my  face  ;  no  word  she  said  : 
I  only  saw  she  smiled. 

IV. 

"  Canst  thou  forgive  me,  Angel  mine," 
I  cried ;  "  that  Love  at  last  beguiled 

My  heart  to  build  a  second  shrine  ? 

See,  still  I  kneel  and  weep  at  thine, 

But  I  am  human,  thou  divine  ! " 
Still  silently  she  smiled. 

v. 

"  Dost  undivided  worship  claim, 
To  keep  thine  altar  undefiled  ? 
Or  must  I  bear  thy  tender  blame, 
And  in  thy  pardon  feel  my  shame, 
Whene'er  I  breathe  another  name  P 
She  looked  at  me,  and  smiled. 


90 


VI. 


"  Speak,  speak  !  "  and  then  my  tears  came  fast, 

My  troubled  heart  with  doubt  grew  wild : 
"  Will 't  vex  the  love,  which  still  thou  hast, 
To  know  that  I  have  peace  at  last  ?  " 
And  from  my  dream  the  vision  passed, 
And  still,  in  passing,  smiled. 


LOVE    RETURNED. 


HE  was  a  boy  when  first  we  met ; 

His  eyes  were  mixed  of  dew  and  fire, 
And  on  his  candid  brow  was  set 

The  sweetness  of  a  chaste  desire : 
But  in  his  veins  the  pulses  beat 

Of  passion,  waiting  for  its  wing, 
As  ardent  veins  of  summer  heat 

Throb  through  the  innocence  of  spring. 

n. 

As  manhood  came,  his  stature  grew, 

And  fiercer  burned  his  restless  eyes, 
Until  I  trembled,  as  he  drew 

From  wedded  hearts  their  young  disguise. 
Like  wind-fed  flame  his  ardor  rose, 

And  brought,  like  flame,  a  stormy  rain : 
In  tumult,  sweeter  than  repose, 

He  tossed  the  souls  of  joy  and  pain. 


92 


in. 

So  many  years  of  absence  change  ! 

I  knew  him  not  when  he  returned : 
His  step  was  slow,  his  brow  was  strange, 

His  quiet  eye  no  longer  burned. 
When  at  my  heart  I  heard  his  knock, 

No  voice  within  his  right  confessed : 
I  could  not  venture  to  unlock 

Its  chambers  to  an  alien  guest. 

IV. 

Then,  at  the  threshold,  spent  and  worn 

With  fruitless  travel,  down  he  lay  : 
And  I  beheld  the  gleams  of  morn 

On  his  reviving  beauty  play. 
I  knelt,  and  kissed  his  holy  lips, 

I  washed  his  feet  with  pious  care ; 
And  from  my  life  the  long  eclipse 

Drew  off,  and  left  his  sunshine  there. 

V. 

He  burns  no  more  with  youthful  fire  ; 
He  melts  no  more  in  foolish  tears  ; 


93 


Serene  and  sweet,  his  eyes  inspire 
The  steady  faith  of  balanced  years. 

His  folded  wings  no  longer  thrill, 

But  in  some  peaceful  flight  of  prayer 

He  nestles  in  my  heart  so  still, 
I  scarcely  feel  his  presence  there. 


VI. 


0  Love,  that  stern  probation  o'er, 

Thy  calmer  blessing  is  secure ! 
Thy  beauteous  feet  shall  stray  no  more, 

Thy  peace  and  patience  shall  endure ! 
The  lightest  wind  deflowers  the  rose, 

The  rainbow  with  the  sun  departs, 
But  thou  art  centred  in  repose, 

And  rooted  in  my  heart  of  hearts  ! 


LOVE  JUSTIFIED. 

WITHIN  my  heart 't  is  clear  at  last : 
The  haunting  doubt  in  peace  is  laid, 

Of  faithlessness  towards  the  Past, 
Which  made  reviving  love  afraid. 

For  Love  in  abnegation  lives  ; 

His  eye  no  sacrifice  can  dim ; 
He  most  is  blessed  when  he  gives 

A  greater  bliss  than  comes  to  him ; 

And  true  to  him  is  true  to  all 

Whose  brows  are  worth  his  crown  to  wear. 
His  chosen  are  not  those  who  fall, 

Through  loss  of  him,  to  blank  despair, 

But  those  whom  he  has  left  awhile, 

That  in  the  dark  their  faith  be  tried,  — 

On  whom  his  blessing  yet  shall  smile, 
If  in  the  dark  their  faith  abide. 


95 


No  treason  in  my  love  I  see, 

For  treason  cannot  dwell  with  truth  • 
But  later  blossoms  crown  a  tree 

Too  deeply  set  to  die  in  youth. 

The  blighted  promise  of  the  old 
In  this  new  love  is  reconciled ; 

For,  when  my  heart  confessed  its  hold, 
The  lips  of  ancient  sorrow  smiled  ! 

It  brightens  backward  through  the  Past 
And  gilds  the  gloomy  path  I  trod, 

And  forward,  till  it  fades  at  last 
In  light,  before  the  feet  of  God, 

Where  stands  the  saint,  whose  radiant 
This  solace  beams,  while  I  adore : 

Be  happy :  if  thou  lovedst  not  now, 
Thou  never  couldst  have  loved  before  ! 


A    WOMAN. 


SHE  is  a  woman :  therefore,  I  a  man, 

In  so  much  as  I  love  her.     Could  I  more, 

Then  I  were  more  a  man.     Our  natures  ran 
Together,  brimming  full,  not  flooding  o'er 

The  banks  of  life,  and  evermore  will  run 

In  one  full  stream  until  our  days  are  done. 

ii. 

She  is  a  woman,  but  of  spirit  brave 

To  bear  the  loss  of  girlhood's  giddy  dreams  ; 

The  regal  mistress,  not  the  yielding  slave 
Of  her  ideal,  spurning  that  which  seems 

For  that  which  is,  and,  as  her  fancies  fall, 

Smiling  :  the  truth  of  love  outweighs  them  all. 


97 


in. 


She  looks  through  life,  and  with  a  balance  just 
Weighs  men  and  things,  beholding  as  they  are 

The  lives  of  others  :  in  the  common  dust 
She  finds  the  fragments  of  the  ruined  star : 

Proud,  with  a  pride  all  feminine  and  sweet, 

No  path  can  soil  the  whiteness  of  her  feet. 


rv. 


The  steady  candor  of  her  gentle  eyes 
Strikes  dead  deceit,  laughs  vanity  away ; 

She  hath  no  room  for  petty  jealousies, 

Where  Faith  and  Love  divide  their  tender  sway. 

Of  either  sex  she  owns  the  nobler  part : 

Man's  honest  brow  and  woman's  faithful  heart. 


v. 

She  is  a  woman,  who,  if  Love  were  guide, 
Would  climb  to  power,  or  in  obscure  content 

Sit  down  :  accepting  fate  with  changeless  pride,  — 
A  reed  in  calm,  in  storm  a  staff  unbent : 

No  pretty  plaything,  ignorant  of  life, 

But  Man's  true  mother,  and  his  equal  wife. 
5  G 


THE.  COUNT  OF   GLEICHEN. 

I  READ  that  story  of  the  Saxon  knight, 

Who,  leaving  spouse  and  feudal  fortress,  made 

The  Cross  of  Christ  his  guerdon  in  the  fight, 
And  joined  the  last  Crusade  : 

Whom,  in  the  chase  on  Damietta's  sands 
Estrayed,  the  Saracens  in  ambush  caught, 

And  unto  Cairo,  to  the  Soldan's  hands, 
A  wretched  captive  brought : 

Whom  then  the  Soldan's  child,  a  damsel  brave, 
Saw,  pitied,  comforted,  and  made  him  free, 

And  with  him  fled,  herself  a  willing  slave 
In  Love's  captivity. 

I  read  how  he  to  bless  her  love  was  fain, 
To  whom  his  renovated  life  he  owed, 

Yet  with  a  pang  the  towers  beheld  again 
Where  still  his  wife  abode  : 


The  wife  whom  first  he  loved  :  would  she  not  scorn 
The  second  bride  he  could  not  choose  but  wed, 

The  second  mother  to  his  children,  born 
In  her  divided  bed  ? 


Lo  !  at  his  castle's  foot  the  noble  dame 
With  tears  of  blessing,  holy,  undefiled 

By  human  pain,  received  him  when  he  came, 
And  kissed  the  Soldan's  child ! 


My  tears  were  on  the  pages  as  I  read 

The  touching  close  :  I  made  the  story  mine, 

Within  whose  heart,  long  plighted  to  the  dead, 
Love  built  his  living  shrine. 

I  too  had  dared,  a  captive  in  the  land, 

To  pay  with  love  the  love  that  broke  my  chain : 

Would  she,  who  waited,  stretch  the  pardoning  hand, 
When  I  returned 


Would  she,  my  freedom  and  my  bliss  to  know, 
With  my  disloyalty  be  reconciled, 

And  from  her  bower  in  Eden  look  below, 
And  bless  the  Soldan's  child  ? 


100 

For  she  is  lost :  but  she,  the  later  bride, 
Who  came  my  ruined  fortune  to  restore, 

Back  from  the  desert  wanders  at  my  side, 
And  leads  me  home  once  more. 


If  human  love,  she  sighs,  could  move  a  wife 
The  holiest  sacrifice  of  love  to  make, 

Then  the  transfigured  angel  of  thy  life 
Is  happier  for  thy  sake  ! 


BEFORE    THE    BRIDAL. 

Now  the  night  is  overpast, 
And  the  mist  is  cleared  away  : 

On  my  barren  life  at  last 

Breaks  the  bright,  reluctant  day. 

Day  of  payment  for  the  wrong 
I  was  doomed  so  long  to  bear ; 

Day  of  promise,  day  of  song, 
Day  that  makes  the  future  fair  ! 

Let  me  wake  to  bliss  alone  : 
Let  me  bury  every  fear : 

What  I  prayed  for,  is  my  own ; 
What  was  distant,  now  is  near. 


102 

For  the  happy  hour  that  waits 
No  reproachful  shade  shall  bring, 

And  I  hear  forgiving  Fates 
In  the  happy  bells  that  ring. 

Leave  the  song  that  now  is  mute, 
For  the  sweeter  song  begun  : 

Leave  the  blossom  for  the  fruit, 
And  the  rainbow  for  the  suii ! 


POSSESSION. 


"  IT  was  our  wedding-day 

A  month  ago,"  dear  heart,  I  hear  you  say. 

If  months,  or  years,  or  ages  since  have  passed, 

I  know  not :  I  have  ceased  to  question  Time. 

I  only  know  that  once  there  pealed  a  chime 

Of  joyous  bells,  and  then  I  held  you  fast, 

And  all  stood  back,  and  none  my  right  denied, 

And  forth  we  walked :  the  world  was  free  and  wide 

Before  us.     Since  that  day 

I  count  my  life  :  the  Past  is  washed  away. 

IT. 

It  was  no  dream,  that  vow  : 
It  was  the  voice  that  woke  me  from  a  dream,  — 
A  happy  dream,  I  think ;  but  I  am  waking  now, 
And  drink  the  splendor  of  a  sun  supreme 
That  turns  the  mist  of  former  tears  to  gold. 
Within  these  arms  I  hold 


104 


The  fleeting  promise,  chased  so  long  in  vain : 
Ah,  weary  bird  !  thou  wilt  not  fly  again  : 
Thy  wings  are  clipped,  thou  canst  no  more  depart, 
Thy  nest  is  builded  in  my  heart ! 

in. 

I  was  the  crescent ;  thou 

The  silver  phantom  of  the  perfect  sphere, 

Held  hi  its  bosom  :  in  one  glory  now 

Our  lives  united  shine,  and  many  a  year  — 

Not  the  sweet  moon  of  bridal  only  —  we 

One  lustre,  ever  at  the  full,  shall  be  : 

One  pure  and  rounded  light,  one  planet  whole, 

One  life  developed,  one  completed  soul ! 

For  I  in  thee,  and  thou  in  me, 

Unite  our  cloven  halves  of  destiny. 

IV. 

God  knew  His  chosen  time  : 

He  bade  me  slowly  ripen  to  my  prime, 

And  from  my  boughs  withheld  the  promised  fruit, 

Till  storm  and  sun  gave  vigor  to  the  root. 

Secure,  O  Love  !  secure 

Thy  blessing  is  :  I  have  thee  day  and  night : 

Thou  art  become  my  blood,  my  life,  my  light : 

God's  mercy  thou,  and  therefore  shalt  endure ! 


UNDER    THE    MOON. 


FROM  you  and  home  I  sleep  afar, 

Under  the  light  of  a  lonely  star, 

Under  the  moon  that  marvels  why 

Away  from  you  and  home  I  lie. 

Ah  !  love  no  language  can  declare, 

The  hovering  warmth,  the  tender  care, 

The  yielding,  sweet,  invisible  air 

That  clasps  your  bosom,  and  fans  your  cheek 

With  the  breath  of  words  I  cannot  speak,  — 

Such  love  I  give,  such  warmth  impart : 

The  fragrance  of  a  blossomed  heart. 

ii. 

The  moon  looks  in  upon  my  bed, 
Her  yearning  glory  rays  my  head, 
And  round  me  clings,  a  lonely  light, 
The  aureole  of  the  winter  night ; 
But  in  my  heart  a  gentle  pain, 
A  balmier  splendor  in  my  brain, 
5* 


106 

Lead  me  beyond  the  frosty  plane,  — 
Lead  me  afar,  to  mellower  skies, 
Where  under  the  moon  a  palace  lies ; 
Where  under  the  moon  our  bed  is  made, 
Half  in  splendor  and  half  in  shade. 

in. 

The  marble  flags  of  the  corridor 
Through  open  windows  meet  the  floor, 
And  Moorish  arches  in  darkness  rise 
Against  the  gleam  of  the  silver  skies  : 
Beyond,  in  flakes  of  starry  light, 
A  fountain  prattles  to  the  night, 
And  dusky  cypresses,  withdrawn 
In  silent  conclave,  stud  the  lawn  ; 
While  mystic  woodlands,  more  remote, 
In  seas  of  airy  silver  float, 
So  hung  in  heaven,  the  stars  that  set 
Seem  glossy  leaves  the  dew  has  wet 
On  topmost  boughs,  and  sparkling  yet. 

IV. 

In  from  the  terraced  garden  blows 
The  spicy  soul  of  the  tuberose, 


107 


As  if  't  were  the  odor  of  strains  that  pour 
From  the  nightingale's  throat  as  never  before  ; 
For  he  sings  not  now  of  wounding  thorn, 
He  sings  as  the  lark  in  the  golden  morn,  — 
A  song  of  joy,  a  song  of  bliss, 
Passionate  notes  that  clasp  and  kiss, 
Perfect  peace  and  perfect  pride, 
Love  rewarded  and  satisfied, 
For  I  see  you,  darling,  at  my  side. 


v. 


I  see  you,  darling,  at  my  side : 
I  clasp  you  closer,  in  sacred  pride. 
I  shut  my  eyes,  my  senses  fail, 
Becalmed  by  Night's  ambrosial  gale. 
Softer  than  dews  the  planets  weep, 

Descends  a  sweeter  peace  than  sleep 
All  wandering  sounds  and  motions  die 

In  the  silent  glory  of  the  sky ; 
But,  as  the  moon  goes  down  the  West, 
Your  heart,  against  my  happy  breast, 
Says  in  its  beating :  Love  is  Rest. 


THE    MYSTIC    SUMMER. 


'T  is  not  the  dropping  of  the  flower. 

The  blush  of  fruit  upon  the  tree, 
Though  Summer  ripens,  hour  by  hour, 

The  garden's  sweet  maternity : 

'T  is  not  that  birds  have  ceased  to  build, 
And  wait  their  brood  with  tender  care  ; 

That  corn  is  golden  in  the  field, 
And  clover  balm  is  in  the  air  ;  — 


Not  these  the  season's  splendor  bring, 
And  crowd  with  life  the  happy  year, 

Nor  yet,  where  yonder  fountains  sing, 
The  blaze  of  sunshine,  hot  and  clear. 


109 

In  thy  full  womb,  0  Summer !  lies 

A  secret  hope,  a  joy  unsung, 
Held  in  the  hush  of  these  calm  skies, 

And  trembling  on  the  forest's  tongue. 

The  lands  of  harvest  throb  anew 

In  shining  pulses,  far  away  ; 
The  Night  distils  a  dearer  dew, 

And  sweeter  eyelids  has  the  Day. 

And  not  in  vain  the  peony  burns, 
In  bursting  globes,  her  crimson  fire, 

Her  incense-dropping  ivory  urns 
The  lily  lifts  in  many  a  spire  : 

And  not  in  vain  the  tulips  clash 

In  revelry  the  cups  they  hold 
Of  fiery  wine,  until  they  dash 

With  ruby  streaks  the  splendid  gold  ! 

Send  down  your  roots  the  mystic  charm 
That  warms  and  flushes  all  your  flowers, 

And  with  the  summer's  touch  disarm 
The  thraldom  of  the  under  powers, 


110 


Until,  in  caverns,  buried  deep, 

Strange  fragrance  reach  the  diamond's  home, 
And  murmurs  of  the  garden  sweep 

The  houses  of  the  frighted  gnome  ! 

For,  piercing  through  their  black  repose, 

And  shooting  up  beyond  the  sun, 
I  see  that  Tree  of  Life,  which  rose 

Before  the  eyes  of  Solomon  : 

Its  boughs,  that,  in  the  light  of  God, 

Their  bright,  innumerous  leaves  display,  — 

Whose  hum  of  life  is  borne  abroad 
By  winds  that  shake  the  dead  away. 

And,  trembling  on  a  branch  afar, 
The  topmost  nursling  of  the  skies, 

I  see  my  bud,  the  fairest  star 

That  ever  dawned  for  watching  eyes. 

Unnoticed  on  the  boundless  tree, 

Its  fragrant  promise  fills  the  air  ; 
Its  little  bell  expands,  for  me, 

A  tent  of  silver,  lily-fair. 


Ill 

All  life  to  that  one  centre  tends  ; 

All  joy  and  beauty  thence  outflow  ; 
Her  sweetest  gifts  the  summer  spends, 

To  teach  that  sweeter  bud  to  blow. 


So,  compassed  by  the  vision's  gleam, 
In  trembling  hope,  from  day  to  day, 

As  in  some  bright,  bewildering  dream, 
The  mystic  summer  wanes  away. 


A    WATCH    OF    THE    NIGHT. 

BLOW,  winds  of  midnight,  blow ! 
The  clouds,  fast-flying,  chase 
Across  the  pallid  face 
Of  yonder  moon,  and  go  ! 

Sweep,  as  ye  list,  the  land : 
Hurl  down  the  heavy  corn, 
And  wrench  the  trees  forlorn 
That  struggle  where  they  stand  ! 

Though  mighty  to  destroy, 
To  me  ye  bring  no  fear  ; 
But  in  your  voice  I  hear 
An  echo  of  my  joy. 

Life  —  life  to  me  ye  bring : 
The  precious  soul,  that  takes 
Its  life  from  mine,  awakes, 
And  soon  will  crown  me  king. 


113 

I  stand  with  silent  breath, 
To  hear  one  little  cry 
Ring  through  the  roaring  sky, 
And  worlds  of  Life  and  Death. 

Wake,  timid  soul,  and  be  ! 
Two  Fathers  wait  thy  birth  : 
The  love  of  Heaven  and  Earth 
Stands  by  to  welcome  thee  ! 


THE    FATHER. 

THE  fateful  hour,  when  Death  stood  by 
And  stretched  his  threatening  hand  in  vain, 

Is  over  now,  and  Life's  first  cry 

Speaks  feeble  triumph  through  its  pain. 

But  yesterday,  and  thee  the  Earth 
Inscribed  not  on  her  mighty  scroll : 

To-day  she  opes  the  gate  of  birth, 
And  gives  the  spheres  another  soul. 

But  yesterday,  no  fruit  from  me 

The  rising  winds  of  Time  had  hurled : 

To-day,  a  father,  —  can  it  be 
A  child  of  mine  is  in  the  world  ? 

I  look  upon  the  little  frame, 

As  helpless  on  my  arm  it  lies  : 
Thou  giv'st  me,  child,  a  father's  name, 

God's  earliest  name  in  Paradise. 


115 


Like  Him,  creator  too  I  stand  : 

His  Power  and  Mystery  seem  more  near ; 
Thou  giv'st  me  honor  in  the  land, 

And  giv'st  my  life  duration  here. 

But  love,  to-day,  is  more  than  pride ; 

Love  sees  his  star  of  triumph  shine, 
For  Life  nor  Death  can  now  divide 

The  souls  that  wedded  breathe  in  thine  : 

Mine  and  thy  mother's,  whence  arose 

The  copy  of  my  face  in  thee  ; 
And  as  thine  eyelids  first  unclose, 

My  own  young  eyes  look  up  to  me. 

Look  on  me,  child,  once  more,  once  more, 
Even  with  those  weak,  unconscious  eyes ; 

Stretch  the  small  hands  that  help  implore  ; 
Salute  me  with  thy  wailing  cries  ! 

This  is  the  blessing  and  the  prayer 
A  father's  sacred  place  demands : 

Ordain  me,  darling,  for  thy  care, 

And  lead  me  with  thy  helpless  hands  ! 


THE    MOTHER. 

PALER,  and  yet  a  thousand  times  more  fair 
Than  hi  thy  girlhood's  freshest  bloom,  art  thou  : 

A  softer  sun-flush  tints  thy  golden  hair, 
A  sweeter  grace  adorns  thy  gentle  brow. 

Lips  that  shall  call  thee  "  mother ! "  at  thy  breast 
Feed  the  young  life,  wherein  thy  nature  feels 

Its  dear  fulfilment :  little  hands  are  pressed 
On  the  white  fountain  Love  alone  unseals. 

Look  down,  and  let  Life's  tender  daybreak  throw 
A  second  radiance  on  thy  ripened  hour  : 

Retrace  thine  own  forgotten  advent  so, 
And  in  the  bud  behold  thy  perfect  flower. 

Nay,  question  not :  whatever  lies  beyond 
God  will  dispose.     Sit  thus,  Madonna  mine, 

For  thou  art  haloed  with  a  love  as  fond 
As  Jewish  Mary  gave  the  Child  Divine. 


117 


I  lay  my  own  proud  title  at  thy  feet ; 

Thine  the  first,  holiest  right  to  love  shalt  be  : 
Though  in  his  heart  our  wedded  pulses  beat, 

His  sweetest  life  our  darling  draws  from  thee. 

The  father  in  his  child  beholds  this  truth, 
His  perfect  manhood  has  assumed  its  reign  : 

Thou  wear*st  anew  the  roses  of  thy  youth,  — 
The  mother  in  her  child  is  born  again. 


THE    FAMILY. 

DEAR  Love,  whatever  fate 

The  flying  years  unfold, 
There  '&  none  can  dissipate 

The  happiness  we  hold. 
"Whatever  cloud  may  rise, 

The  very  storms  grow  mild 
Where  bend  the  blissful  skies 

O'er  Husband,  Wife,  and  Child. 

The  errant  dreams  that  failed, 

The  promises  that  fled, 
The  roseate  hopes  that  paled, 

The  loves  that  now  are  dead, 
The  treason  of  the  Past,  — 

All,  all  are  reconciled : 
Life's  glory  shines  at  last 

On  Father,  Mother,  Child ! 


119 

To  meet  the  days  and  years, 
With  hands  that  never  part ; 

To  shed  no  secret  tears, 
To  hide  no  lonely  heart : 

To  know  our  longing  stilled, 
To  feel  that  God  has  smiled  : 

These  are  the  dreams  fulfilled 
In  Husband,  Wife,  and  Child, 
In  Father,  Mother,  Child ! 


THUS  came  the  Poet's  Journal  to  an  end. 

His  heart's  completed  music  ceased  to  flow 

From  Ernest's  lips  :  the  tale  I  wished  to  know 

Was  wholly  mine.     "  I  am  content,  dear  friend," 

I  said :  "  to  me  no  voice  can  be  obscure 

Wherein  your  nature  speaks :  the  chords  I  hear*, 

Too  far  and  frail  to  strike  a  stranger's  ear." 

With  that,  I  bowed  to  Edith's  forehead  pure, 

And  kissed  her  with  a  brother's  blameless  kiss  : 

"  To  you  the  fortune  of  these  days  I  owe, 

My  other  Ernest,  like  him  most  in  this, 

That  you  can  hear  the  cries  of  ancient  woe 

With  holy  pity,  free  from  any  blame 

Of  jealous  love,  and  find  your  highest  bliss 

To  know,  through  you  his  life's  fulfilment  came." 

"  And  through  him,  mine,"  the  woman's  heart  replied ; 

For  Love's  humility  is  Love's  true  pride. 

"  These  are  your  sweetest  poems,  and  your  best," 
To  him  I  said.     "  I  know  not,"  answered  he, 
"  They  are  my  truest.     I  have  ceased  to  be 
The  ambitious  knight  of  Song,  that  shook  his  crest 


121 


In  public  tilts  :  the  sober  hermit  I, 
Whose  evening  songs  but  few  approach  to  hear,  — 
Who,  if  those  few  should  cease  to  lend  an  ear, 
Would  sing  them  to  the  forest  and  the  sky 
Contented :  singing  for  myself  alone. 
No  fear  that  any  poet  dies  unknown, 
Whose  songs  are  written  in  the  hearts  that  know 
And  love  him,  though  their  partial  verdict  show 
The  tenderness  that  moves  the  critic's  blame. 
Those  few  have  power  to  lift  his  name  above 
Forgetfulness,  to  grant  that  noblest  fame 
Which  sets  its  trumpet  to  the  lips  of  Love  !  " 

"  Nay,  then,"  said  I,  "  you  are  already  crowned. 
If  your  ambition  in  the  loving  pride 
Of  us,  your  friends,  is  cheaply  satisfied, 
We  are  those  trumpets:  do  you  hear  them  sound  ?" 
And  Edith  smilingly  together  wound 
Light  stems  of  ivy  to  a  garland  fair, 
And  pressed  it  archly  on  her  husband's  hair ; 
But  he,  with  earnest  voice,  though  in  his  eyes 
A  happy  laughter  shone,  protesting,  said  : 
"  Respect,  dear  friends,  the  Muse's  sanctities, 
Nor  mock,  with  wreaths  upon  a  living  head, 
The  holy  laurels  of  the  deathless  Dead. 
Crown  Love,  crown  Truth  when  first  her  brow  appears, 
6 


122 


And  crown  the  Hero  when  his  deeds  are  done : 
The  Poet's  leaves  are  gathered,  one  by  one, 
In  the  slow  process  of  the  doubtful  years. 
Who  seeks  too  eagerly,  he  shall  not  find  : 
Who,  seeking  not,  pursues  with  single  mind 
Art's  lofty  aim,  to  him  will  she  accord, 
At  her  appointed  time,  the  sure  reward." 

The  tall  clock,  standing  sentry  in  the  hall, 

Struck  midnight :  on  the  panes  no  longer  beat 

The  weary  storm  :  the  wind  began  to  fall, 

And  through  the  breaking  darkness  glimmered,  sweet 

With  tender  stars,  the  flying  gleams  of  sky. 

"  Come,  Edith,  lend  your  voice  to  crown  the  night, 

And  give  the  new  day  sunny  break,"  said  I : 

She,  listening  first  in  self-deceiving  plight 

Of  young  maternal  trouble,  for  a  cry 

From  Arthur's  crib,  sat  down  in  happy  calm, 

And  sang  to  Ernest's  heart  his  own  thanksgiving  psalm 

Thou  who  sendest  sun  and  rain, 
Thou  who  spendest  bliss  and  pain, 
Good  with  bounteous  hand  bestowing, 
Evil  for  Thy  will  allowing,  — 
Though  Thy  ways  we  cannot  see, 
All  is  just  that  comes  from  Thee. 


123 

In  the  peace  of  hearts  at  rest, 
In  the  child  at  mother's  breast, 
In  the  lives  that  now  surround  us, 
In  the  deaths  that  sorely  wound  us, 
Though  we  may  not  understand, 
Father,  we  behold  Thy  hand! 

Hear  the  happy  hymn  we  raise  ; 
Take  the  love  which  is  Thy  praise  ; 
Give  content  in  each  condition  ; 
Bend  our  hearts  in  sweet  submission, 
And  Thy  trusting  children  prove 
Worthy  of  the  Father's  love  ! 


PASSING   THE   SIRENS. 


PASSING   THE    SIRENS, 

ULYSSES. 

THE  headlands  pale,  the  long,  far-pointing  cliffs 
Of  Circe's  isle,  are  fading  on  the  sea. 
Our  oars  are  idle,  for  the  rising  wind, 
Strong  Auster,  fills  the  sail :  the  galley's  beak 
From  every  billow  tears  the  garland  foam, 
And  trails  the  scattered  sea-blooms  in  her  wake. 
"We  should  be  near  the  islands :  look,  my  men, 
You,  Perimedes,  look,  whose  hawk-eyes  peer, 
Deep-set,  beneath  their  many-wrinkled  lids, 
Tell  me  if  yon  be  shores  which  rather  float 
On  the  unburdened  seas,  the  isles  of  heat, 
Delusive  vapor-lands  that  come  and  go, 
Than  rise  from  under,  lifting  solid  fronts 
To  meet  the  turmoil  of  the  changing  tides. 

A  steady  helm,  my  pilot !  yonder  lies 
The  broader  channel :  look  not  on  the  shores 
That  glimmering  change  from  purple  into  green, 
But  mark  the  burning  highway  of  the  sun, 


128 


Now  to  his  bath  descending,  —  follow  that, 

Straight  through,  and  out  on  waters  unexplored, 

Ay,  though  we  reach  the  Thunder's  awful  house, 

The  caverned  hell  of  storms,  than  once  touch  keel 

In  these  smooth  harbors.     Turn  away  ycur  eyes, 

My  sailors,  from  the  fair,  fast-rising  isles, 

That  drug  the  winds  with  many  a  musky  flower 

To  sleep,  that  smooth  the  waters  as  with  oil, 

And  open  bowery  laps  of  sunny  coves, 

To  tempt  your  tempest-battered  frames.     And  me, 

"Who  never  gave  ye  toils  I  did  not  share, 

Or  tasted  pleasures  I  denied  ye,  —  who 

In  Chian  ports  the  flaccid  wine-skin  filled, 

And  in  the  arms  of  soft  Ionian  girls 

Ye  after  storms  long  anchorage  allowed,  — 

Me  bind  ye  fast,  here,  at  the  mainmast's  foot, 

And  stop  my  ears  with  wool,  lest  I  should  lose 

The  settled  will  that  drives  my  purpose  on, 

And  falter  with  slack  sails,  the  shame  of  all, 

Of  ye,  my  men,  and  all  who  honored  me, 

Heroes  and  demigods,  hi  Troy.     For  I, 

Wiser  than  ye  in  scheming,  stronger  proved 

In  much  endurance,  have  the  keener  sense 

Of  all  delights  and  all  indulgences, 

The  more  temptation  to  forbidden  lusts. 

Let  me  not  hear  the  singing  from  the  isles, 


129 

Or  see  the  Sirens,  naked  in  the  shade, 
Spread  their  alluring  couches ! 

Ye,  who  toiled 

With  me,  whom  now  from  Circe's  sty  I  saved, 
Whose  fate  and  mine  is  one,  hear  these  my  words  : 
Brail  up  the  slackened  mainsail  to  the  yard  : 
Strong  Auster  fails  :  in  order  sit  ye  down, 
Each  on  his  bench,  within  the  hollow  ship, 
And  smite  the  billows  of  the  hoary  sea  ! 
Let  the  white  blades  of  fir  keep  even  time, 
Rattling  together,  —  nor  the  helmsman  fall 
A  hair's  breadth  from  his  course.     It  comes  at  last ! 
Whate'er  you  hear,  the  tasks  I  set  perform 
In  order !     Press  the  stoppers  of  my  ears  : 
Nay,  stop  your  own,  —  your  faces  grow  too  keen,  — 
Your  eyes  are  full  of  wild  and  hungry  light. 
Now,  by  Poseidon !  my  right  arm  is  free, 
Look  shoreward,  and  I  slay  you  !  Orpheus,  there, 
Tightens  the  loose  chords  of  his  lyre  :  he  leans 
Against  the  spray -wet  altar  on  the  prow, 
Gazing  straight  forward,  as  his  soul  were  dropt 
Into  the  ocean  of  the  golden  sky. 
Ay,  sing,  and  overtake  it  with  your  song, 
And  if  the  Sirens  not  more  rugged  be 
Than  pines  of  Thcssaly,  that  left  the  hills 


130 


To  hear  your  music,  they  will  quit  their  isles, 
Shorn  of  their  spells,  your  captives,  following  us 
In  dumb  subjection  through  the  barren  seas. 

THE    SIRENS. 

They  are  rough  with  the  salt  of  the  sea, 
They  are  brown  with  the  brand  of  the  sun 

They  are  weary,  weary  of  the  sea  ; 
They  are  weary  of  the  sun. 

Tug  at  the  heavy  oar  ; 

Heave  at  the  stubborn  sail,  — 

Tossed  in  the  mid-sea  gale, 

Wrecked  on  the  fatal  shore  ! 

Here  in  our  isles  is  rest, 

Here  there  is  rest  alone  : 
Sweet  is  rest,  ah,  sweet  is  rest,  • 
White  the  arms  and  warm  the  breast,  — 
Naught  beyond  but  the  unknown  West, 

Naught  but  the  waves  unknown  ! 

From  their  foreheads  wipe  the  brine, 
Round  their  brows  the  poppies  twine : 
Lay  them  on  couches  of  balmy  thyme, 
Deep  in  the  shade  of  the  bee-loved  lime  ! 


131 

Let  them  sleep  :  the  restless  deep 
Here  no  more  compels  to  keep 
The  weary  watches  that  baffle  sleep  : 
Toil  is  here  a  thing  unknown, 

Peril  is  a  stranger  here ; 
Sweetest  rest,  and  rest  alone, 

Waits  the  weary  mariner. 

ORPHEUS. 

You  sit  serene  upon  your  golden  seats, 

In  the  bright  climate  of  eternal  calm. 

No  pain  can  touch  you,  and  the  tumult  raised 

By  foolish  men  dies  in  this  lower  air : 

But  Song  —  when  from  the  Poet's  perfect  lips 

Divinest  song  is  shed  —  finds  entrance  there, 

And  bears  his  message  even  to  your  board. 

Great  Zeus  lifts  up  his  awful  brow :  his  beard 

Drops  from  its  knotted  coils,  and  sweeps  his  knees  ; 

The  thunder's  edge  grows  keener  in  his  grasp. 

And  the  grave  pleasure  seated  in  his  eyes 

Brightens  Olympian  ether.     Pallas  hears  ; 

Her  brow's  chill  adamant  is  less  severe  : 

And  large-eyed  Here  lifts  the  violet  lids, 

Shading  the  languid  fountains  of  her  eyes, 

To  look  the  joy  her  indolence  makes  dumb. 


132 


You  hear  me,  Gods !  you  hear  and  comfort  me. 

I  see  thee,  whom  in  Delos  I  adored, 

And  unto  whom,  beyond  the  Thracian  strait, 

I  built  an  altar  on  the  windy  isle 

Beside  the  Tauric  seas.     Thy  splendid  hair, 

Spread  by  the  swiftness  of  thy  chariot-wheels, 

Kays  with  celestial  gold  thy  forehead's  arch, 

And  thine  immortal  lips,  too  sweet  for  man, 

Too  eloquent  for  woman,  half  unclose, 

Unuttered  consolation  in  their  smile,  — 

Unspoken  promises,  whence  hope  is  born 

Of  something  happier,  somewhere  in  the  spheres. 

THE     SIRENS. 

You  have  toiled  enough,  mariners  ! 

Labor  no  more  : 
Lower  the  canvas, 

Leave  the  oar : 
Over  our  island 

Storms  cannot  come : 
Winds  are  in  slumber  : 

Thunder  is  dumb. 
Only  the  nightingale 

Sings  in  her  nest : 
Balmy  our  couches, 


133 

Come  to  your  rest ! 
Roses  shall  garland  you, 
Arms  shall  encircle  you, 

Lips  shall  be  pressed ! 
Wine  in  the  goblets 

Shines  ruby  and  gold,  — 
Strength  to  the  weary, 

Warmth  to  the  cold, 
Blood  to  the  wasted, 

Youth  to  the  old  ! 
Ah,  and  the  rapture 
Thousandfold  dearer, 

Ne'er  to  be  told : 
Learn  ye  the  secret,  — 
Taste  ye  the  sweetness,  — 
Beauty's  possession 

Belongs  to  the  bold ! 

ORPHEUS. 

Not  Minos,  iron  judge,  alone  shall  speak 
Our  final  sentence ;  but  the  balance  hangs, 
Even  while  we  live,  in  sight  of  all  the  Gods. 
Our  fates  are  weighed,  and  less  unequal  seem 
To  calm  Olympian  eyes,  than  ours,  obscured 
By  films  inseparate  from  this  cloudy  earth. 


134 


As  one  who,  sitting  on  the  high-prowed  ship, 

Sees  not  the  rosy  splendor  of  the  sail 

At  morning,  when,  a  planet  of  the  sea, 

It  shines  afar  to  dwellers  on  the  land ; 

So  we  the  later  radiance  of  our  lives, 

Now  shining,  see  not.     We  have  toiled,  't  is  true  : 

Stared  Danger's  lion  boldly  in  the  face 

Until  he  turned :  borne  wounds  and  racking  pains  ; 

The  frosts  of  Colchian  winters,  and  the  fire 

That  darts  from  Cancer  on  the  Libyan  shore  : 

Brief  joy,  brief  rest,  stern  labor,  suffering, 

Are  ours,  —  yet  have  we  kept,  as  heroes  should, 

The  steady  cheerfulness  of  temperate  hearts, 

Courage,  and  mutual  trust.     We  shall  not  leave 

The  vapid  dust  of  idlers  in  our  urns  : 

Behind  our  lives  shall  burn  the  shining  tracks 

Of  splendid  deeds,  and  men  long  after  us 

Shall  build  the  steadfast  mansion  of  our  fame. 

What  here  we  lose,  shall  be  our  portion  there 

Among  the  Happy  Fields,  —  divine  repose 

Eternally  prolonged,  and  blameless  joy. 

We  in  that  larger  freedom  of  the  blest 

Heroic  shades,  shall  find  our  chosen  seats. 

This  restless  life  beneath  the  hollow  sky, 

And  looking  o'er  the  edges  of  the  world 

Far  from  the  anchored  shores,  the  tongues  of  air, 


135 


The  doubtful  voices  heard  in  sounding  caves 
Where  gods  abide,  dim  whispers,  teaching  us, 
God-like,  the  secrets  of  the  elements, 
Have  smoothed  our  entrance  to  the  ample  realms 
Where  Youth  returns,  and  Joy,  so  timorous  now, 
Drops,  like  a  weary  dove,  to  fly  no  more. 

THE      SIRENS. 

Listen,  ye  mariners  !  hark  to  our  promises  ! 

Prouder  than  pleasure  the  gifts  we  confer : 
Though  unto  passion  the  Siren  gives  passion, 

He  who  seeks  power  receives  it  from  her ! 

Labor  no  longer,  confronting  the  turbulent 
Elements,  ever  opposing  your  will : 

Secrets  we  know,  knowing  all  things,  immortal,  — 
Equal  with  gods  your  desires  to  fulfil. 

Secrets  that  chain  in  his  caverns  the  Thunder, 
Fetter  the  winds  when  they  eagerest  are  : 

Loosen  the  stream  from  its  urns  in  the  mountain, 
Ay,  and  the  vaults  of  the  earthquake  unbar  ! 

Come,  and  the  delicate  spell  shall  be  spoken, 
Subtly  to  seize,  and  securely  to  bind,  — 

Wisdom  and  eloquence,  honeyed  persuasion, 
Giving  ye  mastery  over  your  kind. 


136 


Men  shall  adore  ye,  and  even  Immortals 

Stoop  from  their  thrones  in  Olympian  flame  : 

All  that  have  conquered  and  triumphed  before  ye 
Dust  shall  become  at  the  feet  of  your  fame  ! 

ULYSSES. 

It  cleaves  the  muffled  sense  ;  it  penetrates 
The  guarded  porches  of  the  brain,  no  lance 
Hurled  from  a  giant's  arm  more  sure  :  it  hums 
And  stings  within  me,  as  the  brown  bee  hums, 
Shut  in  the  folded  heart  of  some  rich  flower, 
Drinking  its  drop  of  honey,  —  so  it  creeps 
Within  the  purple  blossom  of  my  heart, 
That  music :  and  the  very  thrills  of  fear 
To  hide  the  secret  honey  of  my  lust, 
Aid  the  seduction  and  betray  the  spoil. 
You  see  me  tremble  :  will  it  never  cease  ? 
It  follows,  follows,  clearer  as  we  pass 
The  channel's  throat,  the  final  isles  abeam, 
And  sweeter,  keener,  more  alluring  still, 
From  looking  on  the  unfriendly  seas.     My  men, 
Sing  me  your  loudest  songs  —  the  yo-heave-O  ! 
Of  Aulis,  or  the  coarse  carousal-glees 
Of  Tenedos  and  Troy  !    What  ?  are  ye  dumb, 
With  eyes  that  burn  like  half-extinguished  brands, 
Fanned  with  desires  new-blown,  and  mutinous 


137 


With  thought  of  coming  peril  ?     Nay,  then,  shout ! 
Yell  with  the  rage  of  disappointed  lust, 
The  spite  of  thwarted  opportunity, 
The  frenzy  which  an  unrelenting  Fate 
Smiles  at,  and  so  increases  !    Curse  your  chief, 
Even  me,  Ulysses,  —  lash  yourselves  to  wrath, 
Like  Satyrs  when  the  Bacchic  madness  takes 
Autumnal  hills,  so  ye  but  overcome 
That  still-pursuing  music  !  Bravely  done ! 
My  heart  is  tougher  for  that  brawny  roar, 
Which,  in  the  old  time  heard,  could  always  turn 
The  battle's  doubtful  scale. 

A  fresher  wind 

Foreruns  the  presence  of  the  rearward  night  ; 
Salt  scud  flies  over  us,  and  pale  sea-fire 
Flashes  around  the  rudder.     Set  me  free  : 
I  am  your  captain,  —  you  are  still  my  men  ; 
My  sailors,  whose  obedience  makes  me  strong, 
My  comrades,  whom  I  love.     See  !  yonder  sinks 
The  glimmering  beach  astern :  the  songs  are  still ; 
The  lovely  Treachery  withdraws  at  last 
Its  baffled  spells.     Now,  whatsoever  waits 
For  us,  of  new  adventure,  hostile  winds, 
Deceitful  reefs,  leagues  of  unharbored  shore, 
Or  combats  with  strange  tribes,  gigantic  forms 
Cyclopean,  or  of  bestial  shape  abhorred, 


138 


The  worst  is  passed :  and  ye  have  proved  to-day 
Strong  to  resist,  where  mere  resistance  counts 
Above  all  courage  to  confront  the  shocks 
Whereon  true  manly  steel  but  rings  unharmed  ; 
But  this  assails  us  from  the  softer  side, 
Melting  the  hero's  marrow.     Wherefore,  now, 
Broach  we  that  skin  of  amber  Cretan  wine, 
First  pouring,  as  is  meet,  libations  large 
To  Pallas,  and  Poseidon,  and  to  Zeus. 
Ho,  Orpheus  !    Are  you  dreaming  on  the  prow  ? 
Or  have  the  Sirens  through  your  tranced  ears 
Rapt  forth  your  soul  ?    You  cannot  hear  them  now 
Come  down  :  our  hearts  need  festal  music.     Sing 
As  when  we  skirted  Delos,  and  the  white 
Uplifted  temple  shone  like  morning  snow, 
'Twixt  the  blue  hemispheres  of  sky  and  sea ! 

ORPHEUS. 

I  looked  on  him  whose  marble  mansion  gleams 
High  over  Delos,  —  did  the  Sirens  sing  ? 
Who  hears  their  music,  sitting  in  the  light 
Of  his  immortal  features,  breathing  balm 
Shook  from  the  rich  confusion  of  his  curls  ? 
He  gave  me  entrance  to  the  happy  meads 
Beyond  the  rainbow's  span:  I  breathed,  with  him, 


139 


The  perfect  ether  of  Olympian  skies : 
I  heard  the  piercing  sweetness  of  his  lyre 
Strike  harmony  through  all  the  shuddering  heart 
Of  Chaos,  while  from  blissful  stars  that  slid, 
Sparkling,  around  him,  in  their  crystal  grooves, 
Sweet  noises  came,  responsive.     I  beheld 
His  music  shape  the  world's  eternal  law. 
Immortal  Justice  there  was  justified : 
Fate  span  an  equal  thread :  more  vile  became 
Rebellion  to  the  gods,  obedience  light, 
Complaint  unworthy.     They  the  soonest  reach 
The  shining  fields  where  shades  of  heroes  walk, 
Who,  spurning  passion,  rise  with  even  souls 
O'er  this,  your  madness,  as  an  eagle  hangs 
Above  the  thunder,  in  the  sunshine  poised. 
Your  voices  call  me  from  my  lofty  dream, 
Yet  think  not  that  my  spirit  stoops  to  share 
Your  noisy  gladness  !     Rather  let  me  breathe 
This  pulse  of  music  throbbing  at  my  heart, 
Until  the  speaking  wires  shall  give  me  back 
Some  fragments  of  the  voices  of  the  Gods. 

THE    SAILORS. 

No  doubt  you  know  the  language  of  the  Gods, 
You,  Orpheus,  with  your  eyes  that  look  afar, 


140 


Your  ears,  dumb  to  the  thunder  when  you  sing ; 
But  you,  our  Captain,  know  the  hearts  of  men. 
Here,  pour  this  cup  of  amber  wine  to  Zeus, 
This,  to  Poseidon,  —  this,  to  Pallas,  —  this 
Drink,  shipmates,  to  Ulysses,  from  your  hearts ! 
Sing,  Orpheus,  if  you  like  :  we  do  not  want 
Your  Samothracian  songs  that  cheat  our  ears 
Like  wind  among  the  pines,  —  but  lusty  staves, 
"  Down  with  the  Dardans  !  "  or  "  The  Girl  of  Cos" 
Songs  that  our  captain  loves :   we  sing  with  him. 
Who  knows  us,  suffers  with  us,  feels  for  us, 
Stands  at  the  post  of  peril  at  our  head, 
Strong  to  subdue  our  hot,  rebellious  blood, 
Free  to  forgive  the  easy  vice,  because 
He  feels  it  tugging  at  his  heart  the  same,  — 
Him  will  we  follow,  though  ten  thousand  isles 
Of  Sirens  tempted,  to  the  utmost  verge 
Where  Earth  falls  sheer  away,  and  under  where 
The  great  sun  rolls,  and  the  stars  hide  at  dawn. 
Drink  with  us,  Captain !  strike  hands  once  again  ! 
We  swear  anew  the  obedient  oath  we  took 
When  first  you  shipped  us,  wild,  wayfaring  knaves, 
Among  the  scattered  isles.     The  watch  is  set ; 
The  night  is  fortunate  ;  the  wind  is  fair ; 
Our  hearts  are  happy,  —  let  our  compact  hold ! 


VARIOUS    POEMS. 


PORPHYROGENITUS. 


BORN  in  the  purple !  born  in  the  purple  ! 

Heir  to  the  sceptre  and  crown  ! 
Lord  over  millions  and  millions  of  vassals,  — 

Monarch  of  mighty  renown  ! 
Where,  do  you  ask,  are  my  banner-proud  castles  ? 

Where  my  imperial  town  ? 


ii. 

Where  are  the  ranks  of  my  far-flashing  lances,  — 
Trumpets,  courageous  of  sound,  — 

Galloping  squadrons  and  rocking  armadas, 
Guarding  my  kingdom  around  ? 

Where  are  the  pillars  that  blazon  my  borders, 
Threatening  the  alien  ground  ? 


144 


in. 

Vainly  you  ask,  if  you  wear  not  the  purple, 

Sceptre  and  diadem  own  ; 
Ruling,  yourself,  over  prosperous  regions, 

Seated  supreme  on  your  throne. 
Subjects  have  nothing  to  give  but  allegiance 

Monarchs  meet  monarchs  alone. 


IV. 

But,  if  a  king,  you  shall  stand  on  my  ramparts, 

Look  on  the  lands  that  I  sway, 
Number  the  domes  of  magnificent  cities, 

Shining  in  valleys  away,  — 
Number  the  mountains  whose  foreheads  are  golden, 

Lakes  that  are  azure  with  day. 


v. 

Whence  I  inherited  such  a  dominion  ? 

What  was  my  forefathers'  line  ? 
Homer  and  Sophocles,  Pindar  and  Sappho. 

First  were  anointed  divine : 
Theirs  were  the  realms  that  a  god  might  have  governed, 

Ah,  and  how  little  is  mine ! 


145 


VI. 

Hafiz  in  Orient  shared  with  Petrarca 
Thrones  of  the  East  and  the  West ; 

Shakespeare  succeeded  to  limitless  empire, 
Greatest  of  monarchs,  and  best : 

Few  of  his  children  inherited  kingdoms, 
Provinces  only,  the  rest. 


vn. 

Keats  has  his  vineyards,  and  Shelley  his  islands  ; 

Coleridge  in  Xanadu  reigns  ; 
Wordsworth  is  eyried  aloft  on  the  mountains, 

Goethe  has  mountains  and  plains  ; 
Yet,  though  the  world  has  been  parcelled  among  them, 

A  world  to  be  parcelled  remains. 


VIII. 

Blessing  enough  to  be  born  in  the  purple, 
Though  but  a  monarch  in  name,  — 

Though  in  the  desert  my  palace  is  builded, 
Far  from  the  highways  of  Fame : 

Up  with  my  standards  !  salute  me  with  trumpets ! 
Crown  me  with  regal  acclaim  ! 

7  J 


THE   SONG  OF  THE   CAMP. 

"  GIVE  us  a  song  ! "  the  soldiers  cried, 

The  outer  trenches  guarding, 
When  the  heated  guns  of  the  camps  allied 

Grew  weary  of  bombarding. 

The  dark  Redan,  in  silent  scoff, 
Lay,  grim  and  threatening,  under  ; 

And  the  tawny  mound  of  the  Malakoff 
No  longer  belched  its  thunder. 

There  was  a  pause.     A  guardsman  said : 
"  We  storm  the  forts  to-morrow  ; 

Sing  while  we  may,  another  day 
Will  bring  enough  of  sorrow." 

They  lay  along  the  battery's  side, 

Below  the  smoking  cannon  : 
Brave  hearts,  from  Severn  and  from  Clyde, 

And  from  the  banks  of  Shannon. 


147 

They  sang  of  love,  and  not  of  fame ; 

Forgot  was  Britain's  glory  : 
Each  heart  recalled  a  different  name, 

But  all  sang  "  Annie  Lawrie." 

Voice  after  voice  caught  up  the  song, 

Until  its  tender  passion 
Rose  like  an  anthem,  rich  and  strong,  — 

Their  battle-eve  confession. 

Dear  girl,  her  name  he  dared  not  speak, 
But,  as  the  song  grew  louder, 

Something  upon  the  soldier's  cheek 
Washed  off  the  stains  of  powder. 

Beyond  the  darkening  ocean  burned 
The  bloody  sunset's  embers, 

While  the  Crimean  valleys  learned 
How  English  love  remembers. 

And  once  again  a  fire  of  hell 
Rained  on  the  Russian  quarters, 

With  scream  of  shot,  and  burst  of  shell, 
And  bellowing  of  the  mortars ! 


148 

And  Irish  Nora's  eyes  are  dim 
For  a  singer,  dumb  and  gory ; 

And  English  Mary  mourns  for  him 
Who  sang  of  "  Annie  Lawrie." 

Sleep,  soldiers  !  still  in  honored  rest 
Your  truth  and  valor  wearing : 

The  bravest  are  the  tenderest,  — 
The  loving  are  the  daring. 


THE  VINEYARD-SAINT. 

SHE,  pacing  down  the  vineyard  walks, 
Put  back  the  branches,  one  by  one, 

Stripped  the  dry  foliage  from  the  stalks, 
And  gave  their  bunches  to  the  sun. 

On  fairer  hill-sides,  looking  south, 

The  vines  were  brown  with  cankerous  rust, 
The  earth  was  hot  with  summer  drouth, 

And  all  the  grapes  were  dim  with  dust. 

Yet  here  some  blessed  influence  rained 
From  kinder  skies,  the  season  through ; 

On  every  bunch  the  bloom  remained, 
And  every  leaf  was  washed  in  dew. 

I  saw  her  blue  eyes,  clear  and  calm ; 

I  saw  the  aureole  of  her  hair ; 
I  heard  her  chant  some  unknown  psalm, 

In  triumph  half,  and  half  in  prayer. 


150 

"  Hail,  maiden  of  the  vines  ! "  I  cried : 
"  Hail,  Oread  of  the  purple  hill ! 

For  vineyard  fauns  too  fair  a  bride, 
For  me  thy  cup  of  welcome  fill ! 

Unlatch  the  wicket ;  let  me  in, 
And,  sharing,  make  thy  toil  more  dear 
No  riper  vintage  holds  the  bin 

Than  that  our  feet  shall  trample  here. 

u  Beneath  thy  beauty's  light  I  glow, 
As  in  the  sun  those  grapes  of  thine : 

Touch  thou  my  heart  with  love,  and  lo  ! 
The  foaming  must  is  turned  to  wine  ! " 

She,  pausing,  stayed  her  careful  task, 
And,  lifting  eyes  of  steady  ray, 

Blew,  as  a  wind  the  mountain's  mask 
Of  mist,  my  cloudy  words  away. 

No  troubled  flush  o'erran  her  cheek ; 

But  when  her  quiet  lips  did  stir, 
My  heart  knelt  down  to  hear  her  speak, 

And  mine  the  blush  I  sought  in  her. 


151 

"  O,  not  for  me,"  she  said,  "  the  vow 
So  lightly  breathed,  to  break  erelong  ; 

The  vintage-garland  on  the  brow  ; 
The  revels  of  the  dancing  throng ! 

"  To  maiden  love  I  shut  my  heart, 
Yet  none  the  less  a  stainless  bride  ; 

I  work  alone,  I  dwell  apart, 
Because  my  work  is  sanctified. 

"  A  virgin  hand  must  tend  the  vine, 
By  virgin  feet  the  vat  be  trod, 

Whose  consecrated  gush  of  wine 
Becomes  the  blessed  blood  of  God  ! 


"  No  sinful  purple  here  shall  stain, 
Nor  juice  profane  these  grapes  afford 

But  reverent  lips  their  sweetness  drain 
Around  the  Table  of  the  Lord. 


"  The  cup  I  fill,  of  chaster  gold, 
Upon  the  lighted  altar  stands ; 

There,  when  the  gates  of  heaven  unfold, 
The  priest  exalts  it  in  his  hands. 


152 

"  The  censer  yields  adoring  breath, 
The  awful  anthem  sinks  and  dies, 

While  God,  who  suffered  life  and  death, 
Renews  His  ancient  sacrifice. 


"  0  sacred  garden  of  the  vine  ! 

And  blessed  she,  ordained  to  press 
God's  chosen  vintage,  for  the  wine 

Of  pardon  and  of  holiness ! " 


ICARUS. 

i. 

Io  triumphe  !     Lo,  thy  certain  art, 
My  crafty  sire,  releases  us  at  length ! 
False  Minos  now  may  knit  his  baffled  brows, 
And  in  the  labyrinth  by  thee  devised 
His  brutish  horns  in  angry  search  may  toss 
The  Minotaur,  —  but  thou  and  I  are  free ! 
See  where  it  lies,  one  dark  spot  on  the  breast 
Of  plains  far-shining  in  the  long-lost  day, 
Thy  glory  and  our  prison !     Either  hand 
Crete,  with  her  hoary  mountains,  olive-clad 
In  twinkling  silver,  'twixt  the  vineyard  rows, 
Divides  the  glimmering  seas.     On  Ida's  top 
The  sun,  discovering  first  an  earthly  throne, 
Sits  down  in  splendor :  lucent  vapors  rise 
From  folded  glens  among  the  awaking  hills, 
Expand  their  hovering  films,  and  touch,  and  spread 
In  airy  planes  beneath  us,  hearths  of  air 
Whereon  the  Morning  burns  her  hundred  fires. 
7* 


154 


ii. 


Take  thou  thy  way  between  the  cloud  and  wave, 

0  Dsedalus,  my  father,  steering  forth 

To  friendly  Samos,  or  the  Carian  shore !  - 
But  me  the  spaces  of  the  upper  heaven 
Attract,  the  height,  the  freedom,  and  the  joy. 
For  now,  from  that  dark  treachery  escaped, 
And  tasting  power  which  was  the  lust  of  youth, 
Whene'er  the  white  blades  of  the  sea-gull's  wings 
Flashed  round  the  headland,  or  the  barbed  files 
Of  cranes  returning  clanged  across  the  sky, 
No  half-way  flight,  no  errand  incomplete 

1  purpose.     Not,  as  once  in  dreams,  with  pain 
I  mount,  with  fear  and  huge  exertion  hold 
Myself  a  moment,  ere  the  sickening  fall 

Breaks  in  the  shock  of  waking.     Launched,  at  last, 

Uplift  on  powerful  wings,  I  veer  and  float 

Past  sunlit  isles  of  cloud,  that  dot  with  light 

The  boundless  archipelago  of  sky. 

I  fan  the  airy  silence  till  it  starts 

In  rustling  whispers,  swallowed  up  as  soon ; 

I  warm  the  chilly  ether  with  my  breath ; 

I  with  the  beating  of  my  heart  make  glad 

The  desert  blue.     Have  I  not  raised  myself 

Unto  this  height,  and  shall  I  cease  to  soar  ? 


155 

The  curious  eagles  wheel  about  my  path : 

With  sharp  and  questioning  eyes  they  stare  at  me, 

With  harsh,  impatient  screams  they  menace  me, 

Who,  with  these  vans  of  cunning  workmanship 

Broad-spread,  adventure  on  their  high  domain,  — 

Now  mine,  as  well.     Henceforth,  ye  clamorous  birds, 

I  claim  the  azure  empire  of  the  air  ! 

Henceforth  I  breast  the  current  of  the  morn, 

Between  her  crimson  shores :  a  star,  henceforth, 

Upon  the  crawling  dwellers  of  the  earth 

My  forehead  shines.     The  steam  of  sacred  blood, 

The  smoke  of  burning  flesh  on  altars  laid, 

Fumes  of  the  temple-wine,  and  sprinkled  myrrh, 

Shall  reach  my  palate  ere  they  reach  the  Gods. 

in. 

Nay,  am  not  I  a  God  ?     What  other  wing, 
If  not  a  God's,  could  in  the  rounded  sky 
Hang  thus  in  solitary  poise  ?     What  need, 
Ye  proud  Immortals,  that  my  balanced  plumes 
Should  grow,  like  yonder  eagle's,  from  the  nest  ? 
It  may  be,  ere  my  crafty  father's  line 
Sprang  from  Erectheus,  some  artificer, 
Who  found  you  roaming  wingless  on  the  hills, 
Naked,  asserting  godship  in  the  dearth 


156 


Of  loftier  claimants,  fashioned  you  the  same. 
Thence  did  you  seize  Olympus ;  thence  your  pride 
Compelled  the  race  of  men,  your  slaves,  to  tear 
The  temple  from  the  mountain's  marble  womb, 
To  carve  you  shapes  more  beautiful  than  they, 
To  sate  your  idle  nostrils  with  the  reek 
Of  gums  and  spices,  heaped  on  jewelled  gold. 


IV 

Lo,  where  Hyperion,  through  the  glowing  air 

Approaching,  drives !     Fresh  from  his  banquet-meats, 

Flushed  with  Olympian  nectar,  angrily 

He  guides  his  fourfold  span  of  furious  steeds, 

Convoyed  by  that  bold  Hour  whose  ardent  torch 

Burns  up  the  dew,  toward  the  narrow  beach, 

This  long,  projecting  spit  of  cloudy  gold 

Whereon  I  wait  to  greet  him  when  he  comes. 

Think  not  I  fear  thine  anger :  this  day,  thou, 

Lord  of  the  silver  bow,  shalt  bring  a  guest 

To  sit  in  presence  of  the  equal  Gods 

In  your  high  hall :  wheel  but  thy  chariot  near, 

That  I  may  mount  beside  thee  ! 

What  is  this? 

I  hear  the  crackling  hiss  of  singed  plumes ! 
The  stench  of  burning  feathers  stifles  me  ! 


157 

My  loins  are  stung  with  drops  of  molten  wax !  — 
Ai !  ai !  my  ruined  vans !  —  I  fall !  I  die ! 

Ere  the  blue  noon  o'erspanned  the  bluer  strait 

Which  parts  Icaria  from  Samos,  fell, 

Amid  the  silent  wonder  of  the  air, 

Fell  with  a  shock  that  startled  the  still  wave, 

A  shrivelled  wreck  of  crisp,  entangled  plumes, 

A  head  whence  eagles'  beaks  had  plucked  the  eyes, 

And  clots  of  wax,  black  limbs  by  eagles  torn 

In  falling  :  and  a  circling  eagle  screamed 

Around  that  floating  horror  of  the  sea 

Derision,  and  above  Hyperion  shone. 


THE   BATH. 

OFF,  fetters  of  the  falser  life,  — 

Weeds,  that  conceal  the  statue's  form ! 
This  silent  world  with  truth  is  rife, 
This  wooing  air  is  warm. 

Now  fall  the  thin  disguises,  planned 

For  men  too  weak  to  walk  unblamed  : 
Naked  beside  the  sea  I  stand,  — 
Naked,  and  not  ashamed. 

Where  yonder  dancing  billows  dip, 

Far-off,  to  ocean's  misty  verge, 
Ploughs  Morning,  like  a  full-sailed  ship, 
The  Orient's  cloudy  surge. 

With  spray  of  scarlet  fire  before 

The  ruffled  gold  that  round  her  dies, 
She  sails  above  the  sleeping  shore, 
Across  the  waking  skies. 


159 


The  dewy  beach  beneath  her  glows ; 

A  pencilled  beam,  the  light-house  burns : 

Full-breathed,  the  fragrant  sea-wind  blows,  — 

Life  to  the  world  returns ! 

I  stand,  a  spirit  newly-born, 

White-limbed  and  pure,  and  strong,  and  fair ; 
The  first-begotten  son  of  Morn, 

The  nursling  of  the  air ! 

There,  in  a  heap,  the  masks  of  Earth, 

The  cares,  the  sins,  the  griefs,  are  thrown 
Complete,  as  through  diviner  birth, 
I  walk  the  sands  alone. 


With  downy  hands  the  winds  caress, 
With  frothy  lips  the  amorous  sea, 
As  welcoming  the  nakedness 

Of  vanished  gods,  in  me. 


Along  the  ridged  and  sloping  sand, 

Where  headlands  clasp  the  crescent  cove, 
A  shining  spirit  of  the  land, 

A  snowy  shape,  I  move  : 


160 


Or,  plunged  in  hollow-rolling  brine, 

In  emerald  cradles  rocked  and  swung, 
The  sceptre  of  the  sea  is  mine, 

And  mine  his  endless  song. 


For  Earth  with  primal  dew  is  wet, 
Her  long-lost  child  to  rebaptize ; 
Her  fresh,  immortal  Edens  yet 
Their  Adam  recognize. 

Her  ancient  freedom  is  his  fee ; 

Her  ancient  beauty  is  his  dower : 
She  bares  her  ample  breasts,  that  he 

May  suck  the  milk  of  power. 

Press  on,  ye  hounds  of  life,  that  lurk 

So  close,  to  seize  your  harried  prey ; 
Ye  fiends  of  Custom,  Gold,  and  Work  — 
I  hear  your  distant  bay ! 

And,  like  the  Arab,  when  he  bears 

To  the  insulted  camel's  path 
His  garment,  which  the  camel  tears, 

And  straight  forgets  his  wrath ; 


161 

So,  yonder  badges  of  your  sway, 

Life's  paltry  husks,  to  you  I  give : 
Fall  on,  and  in  your  blindness  say : 
We  hold  the  fugitive  ! 

But  leave  to  me  this  brief  escape 

To  simple  manhood,  pure  and  free, 
A  child  of  God,  in  God's  own  shape, 
Between  the  land  and  sea ! 


THE   FOUNTAIN  OF  TREVI. 

THE  Coliseum  lifts  at  night 

Its  broken  cells  more  proudly  far 

Than  in  the  noonday's  naked  light, 
For  every  rent  enshrines  a  star : 
On  Caesar's  hill  the  royal  Lar 

Presides  within  his  mansion  old  : 
Decay  and  Death  no  longer  mar 

The  moon's  atoning  mist  of  gold. 

Still  lingering  near  the  shrines  renewed, 

We  sadly,  fondly,  look  our  last ; 
Each  trace  concealed  of  spoilage  rude 

From  old  or  late  iconoclast, 

Till,  Trajan's  whispering  forum  passed, 
We  hear  the  waters,  showering  bright, 

Of  Trevi's  ancient  fountain,  cast 
Their  woven  music  on  the  night. 


163 

The  Genius  of  the  Tiber  nods 

Benign,  above  his  tilted  urn : 
Kneel  down  and  drink !  the  beckoning  gods 

This  last  libation  will  not  spurn. 

Drink,  and  the  old  enchantment  learn 
That  hovers  yet  o'er  Trevi's  foam,  — 

The  promise  of  a  sure  return, 
Fresh  footsteps  in  the  dust  of  Rome  ! 

Kneel  down  and  drink !  the  golden  days 

Here  lived  and  dreamed,  shall  dawn  again 
Albano's  hill,  through  purple  haze, 

Again  shall  crown  the  Latin  plain. 

Whatever  stains  of  Time  remain, 
Left  by  the  years  that  intervene, 

Lo !  Trevi's  fount  shall  toss  its  rain 
To  wash  the  pilgrim's  forehead  clean. 

Drink,  and  depart !  for  Life  is  just : 

She  gives  to  Faith  a  master-key 
To  ope  the  gate  of  dreams  august, 

And  take  from  joys  in  memory 

The  certainty  of  joys  to  be : 
And  Trevi's  basins  shall  be  bare 

Ere  we  again  shall  fail  to  see 
Their  silver  in  the  Roman  air. 


MY    MISSION. 

EVERY  spirit  has  its  mission,  say  the  transcendental 

crew : 
"  This  is  mine,"  they  cry ;  "  Eureka !  this  the  purpose  I 

pursue ; 
For,  behold,  a  god  hath  called  me,  and  his  service  I 

shall  do ! 

"  Brother,  seek  thy  calling  likewise,  thou  wert  destined 

for  the  same ; 
Sloth  is  sin,  and  toil  is  worship,  and  the  soul  demands 

an  aim : 
Who  neglects  the  ordination,  he  shall  not  escape  the 

blame." 

0  my  ears  are  dinned  and  wearied  with  the  clatter  of 

the  school : 
Life  to  them  is  geometric,  and  they  act  by  line  and 

rule  — 
If  there  be  no  other  wisdom,  better  far  to  be  a  fool ! 


165 


Better  far  the  honest  nature,  in  its  narrow  path  content, 
Taking,  with  a  child's  acceptance,  whatsoever  may  be 

sent, 
Than  the  introverted  vision,  seeing  Self  pre-eminent. 

For  the  spirit* s  proper  freedom  by  itself  may  be  de 
stroyed, 

Wasting,  like  the  young  Narcissus,  o'er  its  image  in  the 
void: 

Even  virtue  is  not  virtue,  when  too  consciously  enjoyed. 

I  am  sick  of  canting  prophets,  self-elected  kings  that 

reign 

Over  herds  of  silly  subjects,  of  their  new  allegiance  vain : 
Preaching  labor,  preaching  duty,  preaching  love  with 

lips  profane. 

With  the  holiest  things  they  tamper,  and  the  noblest  they 

degrade,  — 

Making  Life  an  institution,  making  Destiny  a  trade ; 
But  the  honest  vice  is  better  than  the  saintship  they 

parade. 

Native  goodness  is  unconscious,  asks  not  to  be  recog 
nized  ; 

But  its  baser  affectation  is  a  thing  to  be  despised. 
Only  when  the  man  is  loyal  to  himself  shall  he  be  prized. 


166 


Take  the  current  of  your  nature,  make  it  stagnant  if 

you  will : 

Dam  it  up  to  drudge  forever,  at  the  service  of  your  mill : 
Mine  the  rapture  and  the  freedom  of  the  torrent  on  the 

hill! 

Straighten  out  your  wavy  borders :  make  a  tow-path  at 

the  side : 
Be  the  dull  canal  your  channel,  where  the  heavy  barges 

glide,  — 
Lo,  the  muddy  bed  is  tranquil,  not  a  rapid  breaks  the  tide ! 

I  shall  wander  o'er  the  meadows  where  the  fairest  blos 
soms  call : 

Though  the  ledges  seize  and  fling  me  headlong  from 
the  rocky  wall, 

I  shall  leave  a  rainbow  hanging  o'er  the  ruins  of  my  fall ! 

I  shall  lead  a  glad  existence,  as  I  broaden  down  the  vales, 
Brimming  past  the  regal  cities,  whitened  with  the  sea 
ward  sails  — 
Feel  the  mighty  pulse  of  ocean  ere  I  mingle  with  its  gales ! 

Vex  me  not  with  weary  questions :  seek  no  moral  to 

deduce : 

With  the  Present  I  am  busy,  with  the  Future  hold  a  truce : 
If  I  live  the  life  He  gave  me,  God  will  turn  it  to  His  use. 


PROPOSAL. 

THE  violet  loves  a  sunny  bank, 

The  cowslip  loves  the  lea ; 
The  scarlet  creeper  loves  the  elm, 
But  I  love  —  thee. 

The  sunshine  kisses  mount  and  vale, 

The  stars,  they  kiss  the  sea ; 
The  west  winds  kiss  the  clover  bloom, 
But  I  kiss  —  thee ! 

The  oriole  weds  his  mottled  mate ; 

The  lily 's  bride  o'  the  bee ; 
Heaven's  marriage-ring  is  round  the  earth 
Shall  I  wed  thee? 


RENUNCIATION. 


WORDS  are  but  headstones  o'er  the  grave  of  thought. 

When  some  gigantic  passion  grasps  the  heart 
Until  its  powers,  to  utmost  tension  brought, 

Tug  at  the  roots  of  life,  no  speech  may  start 
The  spell  of  silence.     Deepest  moods  are  dumb, 

Nor  song,  nor  picture,  nor  the  spells  of  sound 

Fathom  their  dark  profound, 
The  secret  of  their  language  overcome. 
But  farthest,  subtlest,  most  elusive  still 

Are  those  dim  shapes  that  haunt  the  Poet's  brain, 
Beyond  all  wish,  or  any  grasp  of  will, 

That  come  unsought  —  and,  sought,  retreat  again : 
The  independent  fantasies  that  fall 

As  meteors  fall  in  clear  November  nights, 

Sometimes  a  showery  burst  of  wayward  lights, 
Or  singly  trailing  gold  celestial, 
Or  in  auroral  blushes  fused  afar, 
Drowning  the  steady  torch  of  every  star ! 


169 


ii. 


There  was  a  time  when,  like  a  child,  I  dreamed 

The  gold  lay  hidden  where  the  meteor  fell : 
When  some  divine  interpretation  seemed 

Unto  the  speech  of  Poets  possible  : 
When  Nature's  face  a  mask  of  brightness  wore, 

Beyond  the  brightness  of  the  moon  or  sun : 
The  hills  I  knew,  their  skyey  temples  bore ; 

I  heard  the  streams  to  other  music  run. 
I  saw  a  fairer  morn  within  the  morn, 

And  would  have  painted  it  for  other  eyes ; 

I  heard  the  harmonies  of  twilight  skies, 
The  rippling  idylls  of  the  harvest  corn. 
The  gray  old  mountains  many  a  rainbow  spanned, 
And  trumpets  clamored  on  the  ocean-sand  : 
The  summer  valleys  sang  a  minor  strain, 

Dying  away  in  far,  aerial  blue, 

Until,  divinely  saddened  through  and  through, 
I  tried  their  song  to  echo,  but  in  vain ! 
Why  speak  of  that  for  which  there  is  no  speech  ? 

Why  sing  of  light  to  those  who  cannot  see  ? 
All  that  the  Poet's  noblest  song  may  reach 

Is  the  regret  for  what  unsung  must  be. 

8 


170 


in. 

I  gave  to  Nature  more  than  she  gave  back : 

The  dreams  that,  vanished  once,  return  no  more ; 

Passion  that  left  her  colder  than  before, 
And  the  warm  soul  her  stubborn  features  lack. 
It  was  an  echo  of  my  heart  I  heard 

Sing  in  the  sky,  and  chant  along  the  sea : 
My  life  the  affluence  of  her  own  conferred, 

And  gave  her  seeming  sympathy  with  me. 

0  stars !  whose  light  was  dimmed  with  tears  of  mine ! 

0  sun,  that  smiled  with  more  than  May-day  joy ! 
Ye  do  not  sit  upon  your  thrones  divine 

To  feed  the  tender  fancies  of  a  boy. 
Ye  see  the  stern  eyes  weep,  the  strong  heart  break, 

The  courage  conquered  by  a  fate  unkind, 

In  your  own  brightness  blind, 
Unmoved,  unchanged  for  any  creature's  sake. 
The  voices  which  encouraged  me,  are  dumb  ; 

The  Soul  I  recognized  in  Earth  is  fled ; 

1  wait  for  answers  which  have  ceased  to  come  : 

1  press  the  pulse  of  Nature :  she  is  dead. 
The  early  reverence  I  gave  her  fails, 

To  know  her  apathy  for  human  ills  ; 
I  only  see  the  bleak,  unpitying  hills, 
The  drear,  indifferent  vales, 


171 


The  dark,  dumb  woods,  the  harsh,  insulting  sea, 

The  stolid  sky  in  cold  serenity,  — 

Cold  as  the  ceilings  are  of  palace-halls, 
Above  their  painted  walls, 

To  some  hot  life,  that  beats  in  passion  there, 
Barred  in  alone,  with  eyes  all  wet  and  blind, 
Which  in  the  splendid  frescoes  only  find 

The  staring  mockery  of  their  own  despair ! 


IV. 

Earth  is  our  palace,  and  her  zoned  array 
Of  forms  and  colors  its  adornments  are  : 

She  gives  the  soul  its  garments  of  display ; 
She  draws  the  wheels  of  its  triumphal  car. 

But  does  the  victor  kiss  the  threshold-stone, 
Or  clasp  the  heartless  pillar  at  his  door  ? 

And  does  the  bush  whereon  his  bays  have  grown, 
Shine  with  a  glossier  emerald  than  before  ? 

No  —  no !     His  sun  is  risen  in  kindred  eyes  ; 
His  morn,  the  brighter  flush  of  friendly  cheeks : 
The  music  of  his  day  of  triumph  speaks 

In  human  voices,  and  the  sullen  skies, 

When,  palm  to  palm,  beloved  pulses  kiss, 

Beam  with  the  splendid  sunshine  of  his  bliss ! 


172 


He  gives  to  Earth  the  joy  that  flows  from  him : 
The  vanquished  gives  her  his  defeat  and  shame  : 
Her  chimes,  to  different  fates,  at  once  proclaim 

The  bridal  paean  and  the  burial  hymn ! 


V. 

O,  not  to  know,  the  sunny  mist  that  gilds 

The  mountain  tops,  my  breath  had  thither  blown ! 
O,  not  to  feel  that  loftiest  Beauty  builds 

In  Man  her  temple,  and  in  Man  alone ! 
Henceforward  I  renounce  the  vain  pursuit 

To  find  without  the  secret  hid  within,  — 

To  chase  a  phantom  thin, 
Masked  in  our  own  divinest  attribute, 
While  rosy  life,  the  beating  Heart  of  God, 

The  dayspring  of  the  glory  of  the  earth, 

Supplies  the  Poet's  dearth, 
If  o'er  its  fountains  move  his  wizard  rod. 
The  spirit  of  the  mountains,  sought  in  vain, 

Sits  on  the  forehead  of  the  mountaineer ; 
Th,e  forest's  voice  is  heard  in  every  strain 
Of  hunters'  bugles,  and  the  restless  main 

Sings  in  the  sailor-songs  it  loves  to  hear. 


173 


The  slender  girl,  beside  the  tropic  palm, 
Stands,  the  completed  beauty  of  the  wild ; 

The  sweet-brier  blooms  not  with  so  sweet  a  balm 
Beside  the  cottage,  as  the  cotter's  child. 

The  whirls  of  windy  fire,  on  desert  sands, 
But  faintly  Man's  infuriate  wrath  express  ; 

The  desolation  of  the  Arctic  lands 
Is  warm  beside  his  icy  selfishness. 

Love,  passion,  rapture,  terror,  grief,  repose, 

Through  him  alone  the  face  of  Nature  knows  : 

There  is  no  aspect  of  the  changing  zones 

But  springs  from  something  deeper  in  the  heart 
Then,  let  me  touch  its  chords  with  tender  art, 

And  cease  to  chant  in  wind-harp  monotones  ! 


THE    QUAKER    WIDOW. 


THEE  finds  me  in  the  garden,  Hannah,  —  come  in !  'T  is 
kind  of  thee 

To  wait  until  the  Friends  were  gone,  who  came  to  com 
fort  me. 

The  still  and  quiet  company  a  peace  may  give,  indeed, 

But  blessed  is  the  single  heart  that  comes  to  us  at  need. 

ii. 

Come,  sit  thee  down !  Here  is  the  bench  where  Benja 
min  would  sit 

On  First-day  afternoons  in  spring,  and  watch  the  swal 
lows  flit : 

He  loved  to  smell  the  sprouting  box,  and  hear  the  pleas 
ant  bees 

Go  humming  round  the  lilacs  and  through  the  apple-trees. 


175 


in. 

I  think  he  loved  the  spring :  not  that  he  cared  for  flow 
ers  :  most  men 

Think  such  things  foolishness,  —  but  we  were  first  ac 
quainted  then, 

One  spring :  the  next  he  spoke  his  mind ;  the  third  I 
was  his  wife, 

And  in  the  spring  (it  happened  so)  our  children  entered 
life. 

IV. 

He  was  but  seventy-five  :  I  did  not  think  to  lay  him  yet 
In  Kennett  graveyard,  where  at  Monthly  Meeting  first 

we  met. 

The  Father's  mercy  shows  in  this :  't  is  better  I  should  be 
Picked  out  to  bear  the  heavy  cross  —  alone  in  age  — 

than  he. 

v. 

We  've  lived  together  fifty  years :  it  seems  but  one  long 

day, 

One  quiet  Sabbath  of  the  heart,  till  he  was  called  away ; 
And  as  we  bring  from  Meeting-time  a  sweet  contentment 

home, 
So,  Hannah,  I  have  store  of  peace  for  all  the  days  to 

come. 


176 


VI. 

I  mind  (for  I  can  tell  thee  now)  how  hard  it  was  to 

know 

If  I  had  heard  the  spirit  right,  that  told  me  I  should  go ; 
For  father  had  a  deep  concern  upon  his  mind  that  day, 
But  mother  spoke  for  Benjamin,  —  she  knew  what  best 

to  say. 

VII. 

Then  she  was  still :  they  sat  a  while :  at  last  she  spoke 

again, 
"  The  Lord  incline  thee  to  the  right ! "  and  "  Thou  shalt 

have  him,  Jane ! " 
My  father  said.     I  cried.     Indeed,  't  was  not  the  least 

of  shocks, 
For  Benjamin  was  Hicksite,  and  father  Orthodox. 

VIII. 

I  thought  of  this  ten  years  ago,  when  daughter  Ruth  we 

lost: 
Her  husband 's  of  the  world,  and  yet  I  could  not  see  her 

crossed. 
She  wears,  thee  knows,  the  gayest  gowns,  she  hears  a 

hireling  priest  — 
Ah,  dear !  the  cross  was  ours :  her  life 's  a  happy  one,  at 

least. 


177 


IX. 

Perhaps  she'll  wear  a  plainer  dress  when  she's  as  old 

as  I, — 
Would  thee  believe  it,  Hannah  ?  once  /  felt  temptation 

nigh! 

My  wedding-gown  was  ashen  silk,  too  simple  for  my  taste  : 
I  wanted  lace  around  the  neck,  and  a  ribbon  at  the  waist. 


How  strange  it  seemed  to  sit  with  him  upon  the  women's 

side  ! 

I  did  not  dare  to  lift  my  eyes  :  I  felt  more  fear  than  pride, 
Till,  "  in  the  presence  of  the  Lord,"  he  said,  and  then 

there  came 
A  holy  strength  upon  my  heart,  and  I  could  say  the 

same. 

XI. 

I  used  to  blush  when  he  came  near,  but  then  I  showed 

no  sign ; 
With  all  the  meeting  looking  on,  I  held  his  hand  in 

mine. 
It  seemed  my  bashfulness  was  gone,  now  I  was  his  for 

life: 
Thee  knows  the  feeling,  Hannah,  —  thee,  too,  hast  been 

a  wife. 

8*  L 


178 

XII. 

As  home  we  rode,  I  saw  no  fields  look  half  so  green 

as  ours ; 
The  woods  were  coming  into  leaf,  the  meadows  full  of 

flowers ; 
The  neighbors  met  us  in  the  lane,  and  every  face  was 

kind,  — 
'Tis  strange  how  lively  everything  comes  back  upon 

my  mind. 

XIII. 

I  see,  as  plain  as  thee  sits  there,  the  wedding-dinner 

spread : 

At  our  own  table  we  were  guests,  with  father  at  the  head, 
And  Dinah  Passmore  helped  us  both,  —  't  was  she  stood 

up  with  me, 
And  Abner  Jones  with  Benjamin,  —  and  now  they're 

gone,  all  three ! 

XIV. 

It  is  not  right  to  wish  for  death ;  the  Lord  disposes  best. 
His  Spirit  comes  to  quiet  hearts,  and  fits  them  for  His 

rest; 

And  that  He  halved  our  little  flock  was  merciful,  I  see : 
For  Benjamin  has  two  in  heaven,  and  two  are  left  with 

me. 


179 


xv. 

Eusebius  never  cared  to  farm,  —  't  was  not  his  call,  in 

truth, 
And  I  must  rent  the  dear  old  place,  and  go  to  daughter 

Ruth. 
Thee  '11  say  her  ways  are  not  like  mine,  —  young  people 

now-a-days 
Have  fallen  sadly  off,  I  think,  from  all  the  good  old  ways. 

XVI. 

But  Ruth  is  still  a  Friend  at  heart ;  she  keeps  the  sim 
ple  tongue, 

The  cheerful,  kindly  nature  we  loved  when  she  was 
young ; 

And  it  was  brought  upon  my  mind,  remembering  her, 
of  late, 

That  we  on  dress  and  outward  things  perhaps  lay  too 
much  weight. 

XVII. 

I  once  heard  Jesse  Kersey  say,  a  spirit  clothed  with 

grace, 

And  pure,  almost,  as  angels  are,  may  have  a  homely  face. 
And  dress  may  be  of  less  account :  the  Lord  will  look 

within : 
The  soul  it  is  that  testifies  of  righteousness  or  sin. 


180 


XVIII. 

Thee  must  n't  be  too  hard  on  Ruth :  she 's  anxious  I 
should  go, 

And  she  will  do  her  duty  as  a  daughter  should,  I  know. 

'T  is  hard  to  change  so  late  in  life,  but  we  must  be  re 
signed  : 

The  Lord  looks  down  contentedly  upon  a  willing  mind. 


ANASTASIA. 

Too  pure  thy  lips  for  passion's  kiss ; 

Too  fair  thy  cheek  love's  rose  to  be : 
The  brightest  dream  of  Beauty's  bliss 

Is  dark  beside  the  dream  of  thee. 
Thine  eyes  were  lit  from  other  skies ; 

Thy  limbs  are  made  of  purer  clay ; 
And  wandering  airs  of  Paradise 

Before  thee  breathe  the  mists  away. 

Go,  Angel !  on  thy  path  serene, 

The  lily-garland  in  thy  hair : 
I  shall  not  crown  thee  as  my  queen, 

Or  vex  thee  with  my  hopeless  prayer. 
Love  follows  those  whose  dancing  feet 

Like  rose-leaves  warm  the  summer  sod 
Thy  brow  foretells  the  winding-sheet ; 

The  coffin  waits  thee,  and  the  clod. 


THE   PALM  AND  THE   PINE. 

WHEN  Peter  led  the  First  Crusade, 
A  Norseman  wooed  an  Arab  maid. 

He  loved  her  lithe  and  palmy  grace, 
And  the  dark  beauty  of  her  face  : 

She  loved  his  cheeks,  so  ruddy  fair, 
His  sunny  eyes  and  yellow  hair. 

He  called :  she  left  her  father's  tent ; 
She  followed  whereso'er  he  went. 

She  left  the  palms  of  Palestine 
To  sit  beneath  the  Norland  pine. 

She  sang  the  musky  Orient  strains 
Where  Winter  swept  the  snowy  plains. 


183 

Their  natures  met  like  Night  and  Morn 
What  time  the  morning-star  is  born. 

The  child  that  from  their  meeting  grew 
Hung,  like  that  star,  between  the  two. 

The  glossy  night  his  mother  shed 
From  her  long  hair  was  on  his  head  : 

But  in  its  shade  they  saw  arise 
The  morning  of  his  father's  eyes. 

Beneath  the  Orient's  tawny  stain 
Wandered  the  Norseman's  crimson  vein 

Beneath  the  Northern  force  was  seen 
The  Arab  sense,  alert  and  keen. 

His  were  the  Viking's  sinewy  hands, 
The  arching  foot  of  Eastern  lands. 

And  in  his  soul  conflicting  strove 
Northern  indifference,  Southern  love  ; 

The  chastity  of  temperate  blood, 
Impetuous  passion's  fiery  flood ; 


184 

The  settled  faith  that  nothing  shakes, 
The  jealousy  a  breath  awakes ; 

The  planning  Reason's  sober  gaze, 
And  Fancy's  meteoric  blaze. 

And  stronger,  as  he  grew  to  man, 
The  contradicting  natures  ran,  — 

As  mingled  streams  from  Etna  flow, 
One  born  of  fire,  and  one  of  snow. 

And  one  impelled,  and  one  withheld, 
And  one  obeyed,  and  one  rebelled. 

One  gave  him  force,  the  other  fire ; 
This  self-control,  and  that  desire. 

One  filled  his  heart  with  fierce  unrest ; 
With  peace  serene  the  other  blessed. 

He  knew  the  depth  and  knew  the  height, 
The  bounds  of  darkness  and  of  light ; 

And  who  these  far  extremes  has  seen 
Must  needs  know  all  that  lies  between. 


185 

So,  with  untaught,  instinctive  art, 
He  read  the  myriad-natured  heart. 

He  met  the  men  of  many  a  land ; 
They  gave  their  souls  into  his  hand ; 

And  none  of  them  was  long  unknown : 
The  hardest  lesson  was  his  own. 

But  how  he  lived,  and  where,  and  when, 
It  matters  not  to  other  men ; 

For,  as  a  fountain  disappears, 
To  gush  again  in  later  years, 

So  hidden  blood  may  find  the  day, 
When  centuries  have  rolled  away ; 

And  fresher  lives  betray  at  last 
The  lineage  of  a  far-off  Past. 

That  nature,  mixed  of  sun  and  snow, 
Repeats  its  ancient  ebb  and  flow : 

The  children  of  the  Palm  and  Pine 
Renew  their  blended  lives  —  in  mine. 


OVER-POSSESSION. 

WITH  beating  heart  and  crowded  brain, 
I  wait  the  touch  of  song  in  vain. 
The  coy,  capricious  Muse  retires 
Before  the  flame  herself  inspires, 
And  for  a  calmer,  colder  hour, 
Reserves  her  passion  and  her  power. 

The  sweetness  of  the  autumn  skies, 
The  light  that  on  the  landscape  lies, 
Where  yonder  sloping  wood-side  nods 
The  sunshine  of  the  golden-rods, 
The  noise  of  children  at  their  play, 
The  crickets  elm-ping  out  the  day, 
The  music  breathing  from  the  Past, 
The  Future's  pictures,  vague  and  vast ; 
The  beauty  men  but  rarely  seek, 
The  secret  truths  they  never  speak ; 


187 

The  double  life,  —  the  outward  show, 
The  hell  and  heaven  that  hide  below ; 
The  hopeless  whirl  of  woe  and  wrong ; 
Eternal  Wisdom's  under-song,  — 
All  these,  by  turns,  possess  my  mind, 
Yet  none  of  these  mine  art  can  bind  : 
For  she,  my  goddess,  will  be  wooed 
Alone  in  calm  and  solitude. 

So,  cheerfully,  the  weight  I  bear 
Of  hot  emotions  which  outwear 
The  crowded  brain,  and  dim  the  eye 
Of  single-sighted  Poesy. 
She,  when  the  throngs  around  her  hum, 
Stands  in  the  centre,  blind  and  dumb ; 
But  to  the  One  unveils  her  charms, 
And  clasps  him  in  immortal  arms. 


ON  LEAVING   CALIFORNIA. 

O  FAIR  young  land,  the  youngest,  fairest  far 
Of  which  our  world  can  boast,  — 

Whose  guardian  planet,  Evening's  silver  star, 
Illumes  thy  golden  coast,  — 

How  art  thou  conquered,  tamed  in  all  the  pride 

Of  savage  beauty  still ! 
How  brought,  O  panther  of  the  splendid  hide, 

To  know  thy  master's  will ! 

No  more  thou  sit.test  on  thy  tawny  hills 

In  indolent  repose ; 
Or  pour'st  the  crystal  of  a  thousand  rills 

Down  from  thy  house  of  snows. 


189 


But  where  the  wild-oats  wrapped  thy  knees  in  gold, 

The  ploughman  drives  his  share, 
&.nd  where,  through  canons  deep,  thy  streams  are  rolled, 

The  miner's  arm  is  bare. 

Yet  in  thy  lap,  thus  rudely  rent  and  torn, 

A  nobler  seed  shall  be : 
Mother  of  mighty  men,  thou  shalt  not  mourn 

Thy  lost  virginity ! 

Thy  human  children  shall  restore  the  grace 

Gone  with  thy  fallen  pines  : 
The  wild,  barbaric  beauty  of  thy  face 

Shall  round  to  classic  lines. 


And  Order,  Justice,  Social  Law  shall  curb 

Thy  untamed  energies ; 
And  Art,  and  Science,  with  their  dreams  superb, 

Replace  thine  ancient  ease. 

The  marble,  sleeping  in  thy  mountains  now, 

Shall  live  in  sculptures  rare ; 
Thy  native  oak  shall  crown  the  sage's  brow, — 

Thy  bay,  the  poet's  hair. 


190 

Thy  tawny  hills  shall  bleed  their  purple  wine, 

Thy  valleys  yield  their  oil  ,• 
And  Music,  with  her  eloquence  divine, 

Persuade  thy  sons  to  toil. 

Till  Hesper,  as  he  trims  his  silver  beam, 

No  happier  land  shall  see, 
And  Earth  shall  find  her  old  Arcadian  dream 

Restored  again  in  thee  I 


EUPHORION. 


"  I  will  not  longer 
Earth-bound  linger: 
Loosen  your  hold  on 
Hand  and  on  ringlet, 
Girdle  and  garment; 
Leave  them :  they  're  mine !  " 

"  Bethink  thee,  bethink  thee 
To  whom  thou  belongest! 
Say,  wouldst  thou  wound  us, 
Rudely  destroying 
Threefold  the  beauty,  — 
Mine,  his,  and  thine?" 

FAUST,  —  SECOND  PART. 


NAT,  fold  your  arms,  beloved  Friends, 
Above  the  hearts  that  vainly  beat ! 

Or  catch  the  rainbow  where  it  benda, 
And  find  your  darling  at  its  feet ; 

Or  fix  the  fountain's  varying  shape, 
The  sunset-cloud's  elusive  dye, 

The  speech  of  winds  that  round  the  cape 
Make  music  to  the  sea  and  sky  : 


192 

So  may  you  summon  from  the  air 
The  loveliness  that  vanished  hence, 

Arid  Twilight  give  his  beauteous  hair, 
And  Morning  give  his  countenance, 

And  Life  about  his  being  clasp 
Her  rosy  girdle  once  again  :  — 

But  no  !  let  go  your  stubborn  grasp 

On  some  wild  hope,  and  take  your  pain  ! 

For,  through  the  crystal  of  your  tears, 
His  love  and  beauty  fairer  shine ; 

The  shadows  of  advancing  years 

Draw  back,  and  leave  him  all  divine. 


And  Death,  that  took  him,  cannot  claim 
The  smallest  vesture  of  his  birth,  — 

The  little  life,  a  dancing  flame 

That  hovered  o'er  the  hills  of  earth,  — 

The  finer  soul,  that  unto  ours 
A  subtle  perfume  seemed  to  be, 

Like  incense  blown  from  April  flowers 
Beside  the  scarred  and  stormy  tree,  — 


193 

The  wondering  eyes,  that  ever  saw 

Some  fleeting  mystery  in  the  air, 
And  felt  the  stars  of  evening  draw 

His  heart  to  silence,  childhood's  prayer  ! 

Our  suns  were  all  too  fierce  for  him ; 

Our  rude  winds  pierced  him  through  and  through 
But  Heaven  has  valleys  cool  and  dim, 

And  boscage  sweet  with  starry  dew. 

There  knowledge  breathes  in  balmy  air, 
Not  wrung,  as  here,  with  panting  breast : 

The  wisdom  born  of  toil  you  share  ; 
But  he,  the  wisdom  born  of  rest. 

For  every  picture  here  that  slept, 

A  living  canvas  is  unrolled  ; 
The  silent  harp  he  might  have  swept 

Leans  to  his  touch  its  strings  of  gold. 

Believe,  dear  Friends,  they  murmur  still 
Some  sweet  accord  to  those  you  play, 

That  happier  winds  of  Eden  thrill 
With,  echoes  of  the  earthly  lay ; 

9  M 


194 

That  he,  for  every  triumph  won, 
Whereto  your  poet-souls  aspire, 

Sees  opening,  in  that  perfect  sun, 
Another  blossom's  bud  of  fire  ! 


Each  song,  of  Love  and  Sorrow  born, 
Another  flower  to  crown  your  boy,  — 

Each  shadow  here  his  ray  of  morn, 
Till  Grief  shall  clasp  the  hand  of  Joy  ! 


SOLDIER'S    SONG. 


CASTLES  with  lofty 
Ramparts  and  towers, 

Maidens  disdainful 
In  Beauty's  array,  — 
All  shall  be  ours ! 

Bold  is  the  venture, 
Splendid  the  pay ! 

Lads,  let  the  trumpets 
For  us  be  sueing, 

Calling  to  pleasure, 
Calling  to  ruin ! 


196 

Stormy  our  life  is  ; 

Such  is  its  boon  : 
Maidens  and  castles 

Capitulate  soon. 
Bold  is  the  venture, 

Splendid  the  pay ! 
And  the  soldiers  go  marching, 

Marching  away. 


THE    SHEPHERD'S    LAMENT. 

FROM    GOETHE. 

UP  yonder  on  the  mountain 
A  thousand  times  I  stand, 

Leant  on  my  crook,  and  gazing 
Down  on  the  valley-land. 

I  follow  the  flock  to  the  pasture ; 

My  little  dog  watches  them  still : 
I  have  come  below,  but  I  know  not 

How  I  descended  the  hill. 

The  beautiful  meadow  is  covered 
With  blossoms  of  every  hue ; 

I  pluck  them,  alas !  without  knowing 
Whom  I  shall  give  them  to. 


198 

I  seek,  in  the  rain  and  the'  tempest, 

A  refuge  under  the  tree : 
Yonder  the  doors  are  fastened, 

And  all  is  a  dream  to  me. 

Right  over  the  roof  of  the  dwelling 

I  see  a  rainbow  stand; 
But  she  has  departed  forever, 

And  gone  far  out  in  the  land. 

Far  out  in  the  land,  and  farther,  — 
Perhaps  to  an  alien  shore  : 

Go  forward,  ye  sheep  !  go  forward,  — 
The  heart  of  the  shepherd  is  sore. 


THE    GARDEN  OF   ROSES. 

FROM   TJHLAND. 

OF  the  beautiful  Garden  of  Roses 
I  will  sing,  with  your  gracious  leave  : 

There  the  dames  walked  forth  at  morning, 
And  the  heroes  fought  at  eve. 

"  My  Lord  is  King  of  the  country, 
But  I  am  the  Garden's  Queen ; 

His  crown  with  the  red  gold  sparkles, 
And  mine  with  the  rose's  sheen. 


"  So  hear  me,  ye  youthful  gallants, 
My  favorite  guardsmen  three  ; 

The  garden  is  free  to  the  maidens, 
To  the  knights  it  must  not  be. 


200 


"  They  would  trample  my  beautiful  roses, 

And  bring  me  trouble  enow,"  — 
Said  the  Queen,  as  she  walked  in  the  morning, 

With  the  garland  on  her  brow. 

Then  went  the  three  young  gallants 

And  guarded  the  gate  about ; 
And  peacefully  blossomed  the  roses 

And  sent  their  odors  out. 


Now  came  three  fair  young  maidens, 

Virgins  that  knew  not  sin  : 
"  Ye  guardsmen,  ye  gallant  three  guardsmen, 

Open,  and  let  us  in  ! " 

And  when  they  had  gathered  the  roses, 

They  spake,  with  looks  forlorn : 
"  What  makes  our  hands  so  bloody  ? 

Is  it  the  prick  of  the  thorn  ? " 


And  still  the  three  young  gallants 

Guarded  the  gate  about, 
And  peacefully  blossomed  the  roses, 

And  sent  their  odors  out. 


201 

Now  came  upon  prancing  stallions 
Three  lawless  knights,  and  cried : 

"  Ye  guardsmen,  ye  surly  three  guardsmen. 
Open  the  portal  wide ! " 

"  The  portal  is  shut  and  bolted : 

Our  naked  swords  will  teach 
That  the  price  of  the  roses  is  costly  ; 

Ye  must  pay  a  wound  for  each  ! " 

Then  fought  the  knights  and  the  gallants, 
But  the  knights  had  the  victory, 

And  the  roses  were  torn  and  trampled, 
And  died  with  the  guardsmen  three. 

And  when  the  evening  darkened, 
The  Queen  came  by  with  her  train : 

"  Now  that  my  roses  are  trampled 
And  my  faithful  guardsmen  slain, 

"  I  will  lay  them  on  leaves  of  roses, 

And  bury  them  solemnly : 
And  where  was  the  Garden  of  Roses, 

The  Garden  of  Lilies  shall  be. 


202 

"  But  who  will  watch  my  lilies, 
When  their  blossoms  open  white  ? 

By  day  the  sun  shall  be  sentry, 

And  the  moon  and  the  stars  by  night ! 


THE    THREE   SONGS. 

FROM    UHLAND. 

KING  Siegfried  sat  in  his  lofty  hall : 
"  Ye  harpers !  who  sings  the  best  song  of  all  ?  " 
Then  a  youth  stepped  forth  with  a  scornful  lip, 
The  harp  in  his  hand,  and  the  sword  at  his  hip. 

"  Three  songs  I  know ;  but  this  first  song 

Thou,  O  King !  hast  forgotten  long : 

Thou  hast  stabbed  my  brother  with  murderous  hand 

Hast  stabbed  my  brother  with  murderous  hand ! 

"  The  second  song  I  learned  aright 
In  the  midst  of  a  dark  and  stormy  night : 
Thou  must  fight  with  me  for  life  or  death  — 
Must  fight  with  me  for  life  or  death ! " 


204 

On  the  banquet-table  he  laid  his  harp, 
And  they  both  drew  out  their  swords  so  sharp  ; 
And  they  fought  in  the  sight  of  the  harpers  all, 
Till  the  King  sank  dead  in  the  lofty  hall. 

*- 

"  And  now  for  the  third,  the  proudest,  best ! 
I  shall  sing  it,  sing  it,  and  never  rest : 
King  Siegfried  lies  in  his  red,  red  blood  — 
Siegfried  lies  in  his  red,  red  blood ! " 


THE    END. 


Cambridge :   Stereotyped  and  Printed  by  Welch,  Bigelow,  &  Co. 


Taylor,   3 


250575       «3 


T238 


